


The Sons of Thunder

by ziggy



Series: Sons of Thunder [2]
Category: Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Follows canon but slightly AU, M/M, Non Consensual, Slash, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-24
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-10 15:01:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 47
Words: 311,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziggy/pseuds/ziggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warnings for this chapter: explicit sex with an undercurrent of violence)</p><p>They are called the Sons of Thunder by the Orcs of the Mountains but when the Sons of Elrond meet the Son of Thranduil, a storm errupts, one of violence and desire. COMPLETE.</p><p>As the Grey Company cross the mountains and come to Pelargir and beyond, Elrohir can no longer contain his inexplicable enmity towards Legolas Thranduillion, and for Legolas, his oath to follow Aragorn in spite of everything, leads him perilously close to the Sea, and bait for the Nazgûl.</p><p>A Fellowship tale spiced with romance and slash and an undercurrent of sexual violence that leads, ultimately to redemption.<br/>Warnings for chapters 10, 11 but 20 onwards for extreme violence and images of non-con.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Keeping Watch

Chapter notes:  
Story Notes:  
Characters

Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, Elrohir, Elladan. Halbarad, later – Eomer (read "Deeper"!) Merry, Pippin, Gandalf, loads of Orcs and, of course, the Dead.

This story is dedicated especially to Blume for her wicked suggestion about pirate ships because that's what started this off. It sort of grew in the telling… as these things do.

Warnings: M rated for physical violence, battle scenes and sexual content in later chapters. If you think that will offend you, please go elsewhere and enjoy something less mature. Slash implied at least and lots of sexual tension.

Disclaimer: Not mine. The characters are from LOTR and this is purely for your amusement and mine. No money etc.

Beta by the wonderful Anarithilien. Go read "Dark Forest" if you haven't already!  
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Chapter 1: Keeping Watch

Gimli Gloinsson was a Dwarf lord. He was a renowned warrior and Master Smith of the High Order. He had fought orcs in the Iron Hills and looked upon the Bane of Durin. He had survived the attack at Parth Galen, and fought with great honour at Helm's Deep. But here, in the small camp on the edge of Dimholt, the Haunted Mountain, his fear froze the hair on his head. Even the moonlight unnerved him. Shadows shifted into shapes of men long dead and dissolved into the cold air of that dreadful Mountain.

He had awoken sweating and breathing hard, clutching the haft of his axe.

A grey cloaked Ranger on watch glanced over and then looked away. And nearby, Legolas lay rolled up in his blanket, quiet breaths deep and regular. Gimli breathed in and stilled his own shaking hand. He stole another glance at the sleeping Elf and then slid closer, remaining still for a moment. Then giving a sigh as if he were asleep, he rolled over and lay spooned close against Legolas's back. Warmth seemed to embrace him and his fear dissolved in the Elf's own soft glimmer.

X

Next morning he was cold in his stomach and the dew lay on his beard and in his hair, threading it like silver beads. He felt the Elf's absence; the space behind his back was empty and chill. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and peered over the top of his blanket, studiously avoiding the grey mists that circled the small camp. Horses snorted nervously and pulled at their tethers.

There were low grey humps where Rangers pulled their cloaks around their ears and slept on the cold ground, and Gimli could not help but think of the low humps of Men's graves.

Nearby, a small fire blazed and twigs crackled as they burned. Legolas sat cross legged near the fire, sliding his long fingers along the shaft of an arrow. Beside him was a small pile of feathers he had gathered from the ducks he had brought down the night before. There were two rangers with him, one throwing something into a pot to make some sort of tea, Gimli supposed. He could not remember any of their names, so he had dubbed these particular two, Grim and Grimmer. He had entertained himself on the long march, distracting himself from the fear that froze his scalp by experimenting with names for the Rangers and seeing if he could tell the difference between the two Sons of Elrond- he couldn't and called them both Elrodan.

He threw back his blanket and stretched, listening to his joints crack and feeling his sinews stretch and the pressure in his bladder. Rubbing his hand over his face, Gimli scratched his beard lightly, and tried to put the cold in the pit of his stomach down to hunger and morning dew.

Throwing his blanket about his shoulders, the Dwarf shuffled over to Legolas. He thumped heavily onto the ground and wished he had not, for it made the pressure in his bladder grow. Grim and Grimmer turned to nod unsmiling at him and one scooped hot liquid into a small tin mug for him. Legolas did not turn or pause, and there was a slowness in his movements that suggested he was not concentrating.

Gimli determinedly took the mug and sipped. The tea scalded his tongue but it made him feel more awake. He glanced at the Elf. 'You are elsewhere, Legolas.'

Legolas turned his strange green eyes to the Dwarf and Gimli realised he had been walking in elven dreams, or listening to the sounds of the dawn.

'Not quite Sam's cooking but I suppose it will do,' Gimli muttered, gesturing at the thin tea and wondering what strange paths the Elf had walked that night, and if they were as restless and disturbed as his own. He took another sip from the tin mug and handed it to Legolas. The pressure on his bladder grew almost painful but he would not, could not, bear to walk into those mists that swirled, where the Dead hovered already, as if longing for the feel of life long gone.

'I was listening to their song,' the Elf said, not quite returned to the world of Men. Live ones anyway, thought the Dwarf.

'Oh yes. And what do they sing? Of dry bones and maggoty worms no doubt. A cheerful thought on such a day as this,' he exclaimed. Legolas looked at him then more closely, his eyes focused and intent, and Gimli knew he read the fear that trembled at the edge of his control.

The Elf put his head on one side for a moment, thoughtful, and Gimli wondered if he had slipped back into whatever strange dreams he had. Then a slow smile stole over his fair face and he laughed softly.

'Come Gimli. I will watch your back and guard against any ghosties who try to creep up on you, if you will watch mine.' He nudged the dwarf, making him spill scalding liquid on his breeches. Ignoring the dwarf's angry curse he stood abruptly and looked down at him. 'I need a piss.'

Gimli started. He wondered if the whole of Mirkwood was a bit mad and concluded they probably were, perhaps they all behaved in this abrupt and strange way. But he gratefully stood with the Elf who was grinning cheerfully at the Ranger on watch.

'The Dwarf and I are in need of some relief,' he told them.

Gimli groaned when he saw the startled faces of Grim and Grimmer turn towards them. 'No, no, that is not what he means -not that kind of relief.' But he saw the glances they exchanged and gave up. Legolas had already stepped out of the circle of warmth and Gimli had no choice but to follow.

It seemed to Gimli the grey shadows and swirling mist drew away at the Elf's approach and for the first time, he thought Legolas was brighter than the dark, a soft glimmer. He followed Legolas to the trees and bushes just outside the edge of the camp and both stood to relieve themselves.

Gimli watched the air around him though and could not at first get started; he heard the long stream of Legolas beside him and bit his lip in frustration, but the air was cold around him and he imagined shadows watching, greedy for life. And he could not… go!

'Did you see the Ranger who watches?' Legolas said over his shoulder to the Dwarf. Gimli grunted. 'He is called Corbarad I think. He is the one you have been calling Sunshine. And Grim is Haldaron and Grimmer is his brother, Baelderon. They are cousins of Halbarad and Aragorn.'

Gimli leaned forwards a little. Still nothing, yet his bladder hurt with the pressure. He could hear Legolas humming softly as the Elf let his own stream hiss onto the ground, then he began singing cheerfully,

'Gil-Galad was an elven king,

Of him the harpers sadly sing,

The last whose realm found such bliss,

But nowhere could he find to piss.'

Gimli was shocked for surely Gil-Galad was their greatest King! But to be fair, he thought a little guiltily, he had heard worse sung about Legolas' own father in the halls of the Lonely Mountain. He tried not to think whether he had been one of those who had joined in. At last a pungent stream arced over the ferns at his feet.

'It is a sad tale and very long,' said Legolas brightly.

Gimli sighed and leaned forwards, looking down. 'I have heard,' he replied dryly, feeling his bladder slowly empty.

The Dwarf was suddenly aware of shadows falling over him. He quickly stumbled back, stuffing himself back into his breeches and turned fearfully, but Legolas stood there, right behind him, looking at the space over Gimli's shoulder and whispering softly.

He did not look at Gimli, instead his bright gaze focused upon some point in the shadows. Gimli did not understand the words he spoke but recognised the soft cadence and lilt of Legolas' own language. A light breeze ruffled across his hair and he thought he heard the wind sigh. But he dared not look around, instead fastening his own gaze upon Legolas' strange forest green eyes that looked fearlessly upon the ghosts of Men.

Then Legolas said quietly, 'Come Gimli. Let us go back now if you are done. My throat is parched as a Noldo's charity.' He placed his hand gently on Gimli's shoulder and steered him back to the camp.

Gimli emerged from the bushes quickly, slightly dishevelled and struggling with the ties on his trousers. He tried to ignore the knowing look on Grim and Grimmer's faces - Haldaron and Baelderon he corrected himself, although he thought Grim and Grimmer much more appropriate. He sat back down at the fire once more.

Gimli tore off a hunk of hard rye bread and chewed thoughtfully. Legolas sat next to him and resumed his careful picking over the pile of drifting feathers for fletching his arrows.

'Where is Aragorn?' Gimli asked, handing him the hunk of bread. The Elf shrugged as he tore some off and shook his head.

'He went with Halbarad and Elladan before I even arose. I do not know how long they have been gone, or where they went.' He lifted his waterskin to his mouth and drank deeply.

'Which one is Elladan? And which one is Halbarad?' Gimli asked, wondering how on earth the Elf could tell.

Legolas wiped his mouth on his hand and said, 'Elladan is the friendly one and Halbarad the tall one.'

'Ah.' Actually, Gimli could place both exactly now. 'Then where is Elrohir?'

'He is still watching me in case I do something that will bring down the whole of Mordor upon us,' Legolas said with a slight grimace.

Gimli glanced at him briefly. 'What have you done to deserve that? Has your father thrown him in some dungeon?'

Legolas smiled at the old jibe. So much had changed, Gimli thought. He pulled out his pipe and pipeweed, and then, looking innocent, he added 'Or have you tried to dally with his sister's affections?'

Legolas looked horrified, 'Undomiel? I would never….'

'His brother then?' Gimli interrupted mischievously. Legolas looked at him and then he laughed.

'Your lurid imagination does you no credit,' he said and although he narrowed his eyes in preparation for the moment that Gimli struck his flint and sparked the noxious weed, he did not move away.

'You must employ your usual tactics to win over your enemies,' the Dwarf continued. 'You will have a drinking contest, and having lost graciously, as you always do, he will join you in a wild Woodelf dance around the fire and fall over drunk with you,' he said seriously.

Legolas smiled. 'I fear you now know all our secrets, Gimli Ironmaster [1].' He turned then and tilted his head. 'Aragorn returns.'

The camp stirred and, as Legolas predicted, Aragorn and his two companions entered the small clearing. Aragorn looked stern and drawn and Gimli knew he had looked once more into the Palantir. He recognised the slight grey pallor of his skin and the exhaustion in his eyes.

Halbarad stood close to Aragorn, almost supporting him in his fatigue. Elladan stood nearer the fire and gazed thoughtfully into the flames. Gimli nudged Legolas and muttered quietly, 'He has looked again into that accursed Stone.'

Legolas said nothing but glanced down to the small pile of drifting feathers and chose one. He held it against the narrow shaft of the arrow and quietly continued fletching.

Gimli stared at Aragorn and took another swig from his waterskin. 'What has he seen that concerns him so?' He was aware of Legolas, silent and focused on the arrows, but knew he listened. 'He would have taken us with him not so long ago.' Gimli murmured. 'It seems we are no longer needed.'

Legolas paused then, and glanced at the Dwarf. He said nothing and after a moment, he laid the arrow down and selected a new shaft.

Aragorn was pulling his cloak about him as if he were cold, although the days were warmer as they drew South. Gimli felt the air change and smelled new growth and Spring, and the earth was warm under his feet. He watched as Aragorn approached the fire and stood next to Elladan. The dark-haired Elf looked anxious and had pulled his own grey cloak about himself much as Aragorn had. Gimli wondered what had unsettled them so, apart from the obvious army of the Dead that hovered nearby, he reminded himself. But Legolas was not afraid of them, and surely, neither was the Son of Elrond?

'Aragorn. You do not look like you have rested,' Gimli could not help saying as the Man stood near them. He looked him up and down and added, 'You look terrible.'

The smile Aragorn gave him was thin and tired. 'I will be better once we are riding again and have reached Gondor.' He knelt and warmed his hands over the small fire that gave little heat but seemed to cheer him a little. 'I fear for the City,' he added and looked down into the flames. Elladan shifted where he stood behind Aragorn and glanced at him with concern.

'Have you been looking in that stone again?' Gimli asked. He felt Legolas stiffen slightly beside him and Aragorn sighed. He shifted back onto his heels and ran his fingers through his hair in the habit he had when he was worried.

'So? What did it tell you?' Gimli persisted. And then the words were out of his mouth before he had time to think. 'Is Mirkwood still standing? Does the Lonely Mountain still belong to the Dwarves?'

Halbarad pretended not to have heard the bitter words, and Elladan glanced down at Aragorn. Legolas turned and stared at the Dwarf accusingly.

But surely they were due some consideration, thought Gimli, especially after what had happened at Orthanc? He would never forget that terrible vision of the yellow smoke and the bloody banner the orcs raised. Surely it was not too much for Aragorn to use the Palantir to see if that bloody massacre of the Wood Elves was true or if it was Saruman's wicked lie?

Aragorn looked away and his face, if anything, looked even more exhausted. 'I do not yet have the mastery to wrench it from its focus on Minas Tirith,' he confessed. 'I …I will try again tonight. I promise.'

Gimli felt Legolas' anger with him like a tangible heat and knew he was glaring at him. The Dwarf winced inwardly.

'What have you seen?' he asked more gently. 'Will it help us?'

Elladan pushed a tin cup into Aragorn's hands and it was then Gimli noticed the trembling. He looked away awkwardly and knew that Legolas had seen it too.

Aragorn sipped the tea even as Gimli had and he too scalded his tongue on the burning liquid. He muttered a curse and Gimli handed him his waterskin. The Man drank gratefully, thirstily, spilling water down his chin. He handed it back to Gimli. Instead of taking it, the Dwarf gently reached out to wipe Aragorn's chin.

Their eyes met for an instant, earth-brown and grey. Aragorn dipped his eyes and for moment, a smile trembled about his lips.

Aragorn drew a breath and pulled his cloak tighter about himself. He did not look at them but stared into the fire and in quiet horror, told them what he had seen. 'There are dark clouds hanging over Minas Tirith and black ships sailing from Umbar. Orcs gather to attack the city. They hunt in Lebennin…and Pelargir…' He did not look at Legolas but twisted the ring on his finger.

Gimli frowned – surely Pelargir was the mouth of the Anduin? That meant the Sea. His frown deepened. Aragorn would not meet his gaze.

'I tried… I tried to see Frodo,' he said quietly. Gimli felt Legolas freeze beside him and raise his head to stare. 'I could not see through the dark clouds and fog that rises in Mordor… and I did not dare dwell on it in case He should sense my intrusion.'

Gimli felt the Elf shift slightly but still he said nothing. Aragorn glanced up, but Legolas would not look at him.

'Legolas?' Aragorn's voice was thin and tired. 'I did not look for long, not long enough for the Eye to see…'

But then Legolas looked up and smiled casually. He rested his hand on Gimli's arm gently, silencing him.

'Faithless is he who would abandon his friends in the dark times,' the Elf said quietly and he held the Man's gaze. 'We must not forget them.'

There was a softening of the lines around Aragorn's eyes and his shoulders dropped a little. He reached out and grasped Legolas' shoulder, but Gimli started. The words were his own, spoken on the road to Orthanc. He remembered that night vividly, sitting by the fire, watching Aragorn sleep. He remembered the strange conversation that now, he understood all too well…

Legolas had been leaning back on one elbow, his long legs stretched out, stripping the bark from a twig until the pale wood was bare. Then he had started pulling on a loose thread in his cuff. It was strange to see the normally composed Elf so fidgety and restless. Gimli had not been able to account for it at the time and told Legolas to rest...

'I cannot rest now.' Legolas had frowned. He was so irritable and unlike himself. He had leaned back, gazing up at the night sky and murmured. 'Rest… what does that mean? Rest can also mean death, can it not?' The Elf had looked so unhappy that Gimli had wondered if he had been injured in the terrible battle at Helm's Deep. But his next question had startled the Dwarf even more. 'Are you set upon going all the way to Minas Tirith?' He had a clear memory of Legolas then, still leaning on one elbow, firelight flickering over him, gilding his hair. His green eyes, reflecting the flames, had been intent on Gimli, and utterly miserable.

Gimli bitterly regretted his reply now, but he could not now take it back. He squeezed his eyes shut, remembering his words with merciless clarity. 'Faithless is he who would abandon his friends in dark times,' he had said, shocked that Legolas was even thinking of abandoning Aragorn in his greatest hour. A strange calm had gradually come over the Elf then and he nodded slowly, resolve hardening in his eyes. [2]

Well, it was too late now. For Pelargir meant the Anduin's mouth and that meant gulls. And now that he knew Galadriel's' warning, Gimli understood. Whether she meant to warn Legolas of his death or of something else, it did not bode well for the Elf. And since Orthanc, when Saruman had shown them that terrible vision of Mirkwood's destruction[3], Legolas had… well, changed. It was subtle, but there was his recklessness, and his resolve to go with Aragorn, whatever the cost. And Gimli worried that the cost would be his life.

The hairs on his neck prickled. Aragorn had gone, and with him, Elladan. He was alone with Legolas. He looked up and met the Elf's gaze, and suddenly tears stung his eyes. 'I will guard your back, Legolas,' he said quietly, 'if you will give me your word that you will not abandon me.'

Legolas tilted his head slightly, regarding the Dwarf. Then he narrowed his eyes slightly. 'I have already given you my word, and you have told me what that means to a Dwarf.' He smiled suddenly, 'I will not let you fall.'

TBC

Reviews are nice and don't have to be literary criticism- just a sentence is enough.

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Chapter end notes:  
Chapter End Notes:  
Personally, I don't think you should worry about these references to the earlier story, but I have explained them in case you are confused.

[1] The Rohirrim give Gimli this name in my other stories, "Rohan's Gold" and "Songs of Rohan." This is a continuation of "Songs" "Rohan's Gold" is quite, quite both- you'll enjoy them.

[2] This incident occurs in "Songs of Rohan" Gandalf has just given Legolas the message from Galadriel- Aragorn and Gimli were not present so Gimli does not know at this point, about any message.

In the book itself, Legolas says to Gimli 'Would you rather she foretold your death', which suggests that for at least some of the time, he thought that hearing the gulls might herald his death – he is riding to war so not unlikely. Yet he still goes.

[3] This is a terrible revenge Saruman takes on Legolas. He gives them a vision of Mirkwood destroyed and Thranduil slain. It is unclear whether this is one of Saruman's lies or if it is real.


	2. Standing together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Savingfics

For Savingfics

 

Chapter 2: Standing Together

Elrohir awoke sweating, breath coming short and fast. The dream was still vivid and immediate, the stench, the horror still wildly real. He could almost feel the darkness ooze around him, the torchlight flickering ahead on the dank walls, hear the stifled scream…Eyes wide he sat up, grasping for his knife, staring, hair stuck to his skin …Only gradually, his brother's soft presence calmed him, his hand lightly resting on Elrohir's shoulder and the warmth of his brother's touch spread down his arm…

He turned to his twin.

'I could not wake you,' Elladan said softly, grey eyes filled with concern.

'It is nothing,' Elrohir replied. He grasped the hilt of his sword and dragged it towards him. He stood quickly and buckled it round his waist.

'I will take a watch,' he said brusquely. 'I cannot sleep.'

Elladan let him go without protest for both knew it would do little good. He would be like this until he tasted battle and spent himself in blood. Elrohir stepped between the sleeping bodies and came to the edge of the camp where the shadows drifted. He put his hand on his sword and gripped the cold steel but it was not these shadows of the dead he saw. In his mind's eye, it was still the torchlight flickering against the cold stone, and the stench of urine and death. It was the stifled, sobbing screams that wrenched his heartstrings and tore their dreadful claws though him.

He was not even aware that Aragorn and Elladan left the warm circle of the camp. He was not aware of the time passing or of their return.

The grey shadows flickered at the edge of the camp, the light just catching a spectral banner, the shadow of a spear.

It was less substantial than his dream, he thought. A cold shiver like fingertips traced his spine and raised the hairs on his neck. He wondered anew about the difference between Eldar and Edain. Elladan did not dream as he did. The dream, at once so remarkable and vivid and yet beyond his control, confused him. This was not the waking dream and memory of the Eldar but the wild uncontrolled landscape of the Edain.

He put his head in his hands and squeezed his eyes closed, to shut out the dream. The darkness, the torchlight licking along the slimy walls, the stench of fear. The sound of rutting and that terrible broken stifled scream…

There are some things that no one should have to face. And he had been the one to find her, to hear her beg him not to hurt her – and he had not recognised the filthy rags, or her broken whispers in a voice too hoarse for any Elf, and it was only her eyes, unfocused and bright with defiance and tears that had made him see her. He squeezed his eyes shut and willed away the thoughts, the anger and resentment… why now? Why were these dreams so bright, so sharp now?

A torrent of feelings pulsed through him, a horrid mix of fury and blood-lust and anger and deep resentment… pain that lanced through him… and deep inside, somewhere, he half acknowledged something unresolved. He felt the fury build into a killing rage… and he clenched his fists.

xoxox

It could hardly be said that day broke, for the low grey clouds seemed if anything, darker and more threatening than before. No sunlight broke through. A grey sheen stretched across the sky, like it had been washed of all colour. He saw that Aragorn had returned with Elladan and they stood near the dying fire, Aragorn looked grey and exhausted and Elladan had pushed a tin cup into his hands. The tea had scalded Aragorn for he cursed quietly and the Dwarf, Gimli Gloinsson had handed him his waterskin. Then strangely, the Dwarf had reached across and with utmost tenderness, wiped Aragorn's chin like he was a child. Elrohir felt a sudden heat of shame that he had not watched over them both but instead waited alone with his own torment, and that it had been the Dwarf who showed such tenderness.

The rest of the Grey Company quietly broke camp, moving with deliberateness and purpose, saddling horses and talking little. The fire was put out and covered so skilfully that it soon looked as if no one had stopped here let alone made camp.

He felt the blue-calm of his presence of his brother envelope him.

'Peace,' said Elladan softly. And Elrohir felt that gentleness suffuse the air around him, warm him gently and he looked at his brother.

'I know. You dreamed again. I could not wake you,' he said again. This time, Elrohir did not run away.

xoxox

Gimli had seen Elrodan stand next to whichever one he wasn't – nonsensical as that was, Gimli understood what he meant. He glanced up and glared at his overly cheerful companion who was whistling merrily as if they were on a picnic in the woods, not surrounded by an army of the Dead and on their way to peril and mortal battle.

'Don't you look to me for cheerful conversation after what you said to Grim and Grimmer,' he muttered, knowing Legolas could hear him. 'Mahal alone knows what they think of us now.'

'Their names are Haldaron and Baelderon, Gimli. I told you that earlier.' Legolas replied patiently, taking Gimli's bedroll and packing it with his.

'Strangely enough, I was distracted from your wittering by the army of the Dead breathing down my neck … or rather, not breathing. Forgive me if I did not pay much attention. Anyway, you seek to distract me again,' Gimli reminded them both with patience equal to the Elf's. 'You did tell me their names, Legolas. That is true,' he continued. 'But that was after you told them we were going to relieve each other in the bushes.' He looked up at Legolas meaningfully.

Legolas glanced down at the Dwarf from the corner of his eyes, a mere suggestion of a smile. 'Relieve each other?' he paused as if thinking. Then as if understanding had slowly dawned, he exclaimed 'Smaug's balls, Gimli! What did you think I was suggesting? That is not what I said.'

Gimli was not in the least bit fooled. He counted slowly to ten and breathed out. Slowly. Breathe in, breathe out. Legendary patience of the Dwarves, he reminded himself. 'Indeed, it is not what you said, but it is what you implied.'

'I am sorry,' Legolas glanced at him and the Dwarf thought he saw a flicker of remorse in his eyes. Legolas continued carefully. 'I did not know that is how you felt. Had I known that is what you thought when you followed me into those bushes, I…'

'By the anvil of Durin, Legolas!' Gimli burst out, furious. 'I will hammer your teeth into more interesting positions in your skull if you carry on with this preposterous nonsense!'

Legolas gave Gimli a cheeky smile and began whistling through his teeth. It was an irritating, tuneless hiss that set his nerves on edge and made the Dwarf's clever fingers itch in a way they had not since the Fellowship first set out from Rivendell.

Halbarad glanced Gimli's way briefly and looked away, but not before Gimli spotted a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. The Dwarf chewed the ends of his beard in frustration. Legolas was in one of those moods and he knew he would have no peace. He wondered if he could ride with Aragorn this day, or perhaps Elrohir; he was the one who glared at Legolas like he would like to take an axe to his head. The Dwarf muttered into his beard, throwing his whetstone into their shared pack with unnecessary force, and then tying the bundle securely with complicated Dwarvish knots that, he hoped sincerely, would confound elvish fingers and irritate their owner.

He looked about. Suddenly the stillness became oppressive and Legolas' cheerful whistling sounded eerie, for it fell into the suppressed quiet like stones into a smooth pond. Aragorn stood with Halbarad talking quietly. Other Rangers seemed to have unconsciously gathered about the two, expectant, patient. Gimli shivered slightly in the cold, damp morning. And then he shivered again, not because it was cold… but because the air was still, unnaturally still. No birds sang or animals scurried. That grey sky hung silent and unmoving… and behind him, was the silent throng of the dead.

Gimli was aware that the tension in the rangers that was no less than his own, but their patience and quiet seemed to make them one of a whole, rather than one of many. It was strange how they behaved. No words seemed necessary between them, they simply knew what to do and what the others seemed to be thinking. The sons of Elrond stood to one side of Aragorn and they talked together quietly. The Rangers waited patiently, trustingly. But Gimli was no fool and he observed the close ring of protectiveness that had closed around the future king, and he could not blame them for their love and devotion.

He and Legolas were outsiders now. And the keen glances of the Rangers were not mistrustful, but it was clear they were simply not needed any longer. Gimli missed Aragorn. He missed the closeness of the Fellowship, even though only three of them remained. He became aware that Legolas was closer now than he had been; he felt a slow warmth in his bones. He shifted slightly and nudged the Elf in a gesture of forgiveness. Dwarves were nothing if not generous, he reminded himself.

'What are we waiting for?' he whispered. Legolas glanced down and his eyes gleamed in the grey morning light.

'We await Aragorn. Folk will say the King of the Dead is come, for the Dead follow.'

Gimli swallowed but he was a Dwarf Lord and nothing frightened him. Ever. So he pursed his lips and rocked back on his heels instead and said, 'Well, he will have to get a move on. They do not travel very quickly. Don't they have ghostie horses or something?'

Legolas gave a shout of laughter, loud, indiscreet, and it seemed to shatter some unspoken code. Halbarad looked round as the mad Elf slapped Gimli on the back, still chuckling merrily. Gimli shrugged him off and looked round nervously.

'Hush!' he exclaimed, 'You are more like a drunken Dwarf than an Elf,' he hissed. Legolas merely chuckled even more loudly and now the sons of Elrond stared; one amused and the other furious. Aragorn looked up startled and then seeing the Dwarf and Elf standing there together, gave them a pointed look and then carried on talking quietly with Halbarad.

Legolas nudged the Dwarf hard in the ribs, unrepentant. 'I have said that I am not afraid of the Dead.' The irritating Elf glanced down mischievously at Gimli who was clutching his axe to him like it was a blanket. 'Are you?'

'Of course not!' he spluttered. Then he glanced up and said with an honesty that would once have cost him a great deal, 'Well, a little.'

A thin ray of sunlight pierced the clouds briefly and glinted off the long bow the Elf carried. It briefly turned the scrolls and Tengwar script molten. He looked like a hero from an old song.

'They are dead.' Legolas said more softly, 'They will not hurt you. They fight for Aragorn, King of the Dead!' He put his hand gently on the Dwarf's shoulder, 'Or have you changed your allegiance?'

'Of course not! Of all the stupid idiotic ideas!' Gimli bristled, but he did not shake off that gentle hand that stilled him.

'Then you have nothing to fear' Legolas said. He looked down at the Dwarf. 'Or would you be shamed by an Elf of Mirkwood? Thranduil's son at that?' he grinned

Gimli was not entirely convinced and tried not to let his eyes stray to where the shadows drifted. 'Well, you just keep watch tonight again then, oh He-Who-Is-Afraid-Of-Nothing!'

'I did not say I was not afraid,' Legolas replied, his eyes still bright. 'I said I was not afraid of the Dead.'

'I am not sure I want to know what you are afraid of then. What could be worse than what we have already faced? You have never shown fear.'

'I was afraid in Moria,' said the Elf quietly. 'I have been afraid when standing in the long shadow of Dol Guldur looking for Sméagol and trying to rescue my friends who were taken. But that is not what I fear now. I fear that we will be too late… And I fear that you will fall.' His hand closed over the Dwarf's arm and he was still. 'But I am not afraid of the ghosts of men long dead and with an oath to fight for him we both love.' Suddenly he gave that rare blinding smile that made Gimli start.

The Dead waited, beyond the circle of the living, shadows merged and dissolved like mist at the edges of the camp. Far off it seemed, there was a thin clash of steel and a murmur of voices long dead. But the Dwarf was comforted by the warmth of the Elf's hand on his arm and he looked up and flashed his teeth. 'It's a good thing you've got me to look after you' he grinned. 'Every Elf needs a solid Dwarf with an axe at his back when he's going into battle against immeasurable odds.'

Legolas nodded. 'As long as the Dwarf knows at whose heads to swing the axe.'

Gimli grunted and bent to pick up his great axe. He watched as Legolas slung his quiver on his back, fastening the buckles and sliding his hands over his tunic to check all was in place. The Elf picked up his bow in one hand and reached to loosen and check his long white knives. As he straightened Gimli saw that he met the scorching gaze of the son of Elrond, Elrohir.

That other Elf did not smile.

xoxox

Even now the thin grey light of morning barely made its way over the horizon. Elladan had never seen anything like this day that was not day. The grey clouds felt strange, fog rather than cloud perhaps, but had the unnatural and metallic taste of a storm. That they brewed in the East told him everything he needed to know.

He rode with Halbarad then, behind Aragorn, feeling the other's tension and his alert scanning of their surroundings. All rode silently. Elladan knew the men felt the presence of the dead. He heard a quiet voice whispering behind him and turned, The Dwarf, Gimli Gloinsson, rode behind the other Elf, Legolas, and the Elf's head was turned slightly to answer him.

Dropping back slightly he came alongside the Rohan horse that seemed as restless as its passenger.

'You are from the Lonely Mountain of course,' he began by way of conversation. 'I have been there once. The halls are beyond compare,'

The bright brown eyes of the dwarf stared at him for a moment and then kindled with interest.

'You are your father's son indeed, Master Elladan. Let me tell you though of some other caves that will put the palaces of Erebor to shame…' He seemed to nestle himself more comfortably behind his companion, and Elladan noted the Mirkwood's Elf's tolerant exasperation.

'Let me tell you of the battle for Helm's Deep,' Gimli began. And Legolas glanced back over his shoulder with an expression of indulgent boredom; he rolled his eyes and gave an exaggerated sigh. 'Now you just keep your eyes on the road,' admonished the Dwarf, 'I don't want any of your interruptions trying to cast yourself in a better light. I know how many orcs you killed. And I know how many I killed. '

'Forty- One.'

'Forty-Two. And don't try to distract me.' He turned back to Elladan and beamed at him. 'Now…where was I? Oh yes. Helm's Deep. That was a terrible night to behold.'

He told Elladan of the terrible battle that was waged against the Wizard Saruman's dark forces, and the great deeds of those who opposed him. He told too how the Rohan Marshall, Eomer, and he had been separated and holed up below the great ramparts of the fortress '…with nigh on one thousand orcs baying for our blood,' said Gimli not batting an eyelid when the Elf seated in front of him looked slightly quizzical. 'I had just saved Eomer's neck for the umpteenth time. He is a mite reckless you know.' He added confidentially, 'I dragged him into a small dwelling long abandoned by the Riders of the Mark, and there I bound the gaping wound he had received and yet again saved his life. He was grateful of course. I made him rest whilst I hit a few more orcs with my hammer and axe.' He leaned conspiratorially towards Elladan and said, 'They call me Stonefist, and Ironfist, oh and other names too many to mention'

'Indeed, and not all of them repeatable or polite,' Legolas said, Gimli's leaning towards Elladan had brought both horses closer and Elladan was aware of the heat from the other Elf. His leg brushed against Legolas' and he had to force himself not to jump.

'And was Eomer suitably grateful?' Legolas asked and Elladan was puzzled by the mischievous glint in his eyes as well as the Dwarf's outraged response that was almost incoherent.

'What are you suggesting?' he demanded.

Legolas shrugged. 'Nothing of course. It's just that, given your most recent revelation about your feelings, I wondered ….ouch!'

'Tread warily, Master Legolas. You may have control of the horse, but that does not mean I am powerless!' Gimli hissed, knowing that he could hear.

Elladan pretended he could not hear or see what was going on, but he smiled to himself that his father had been right to ask these two to join Aragorn, for the friendship had sustained and strengthened the Man in his dark days. He looked ahead to where Aragorn led the Grey Company on the road to the Sea. He looked a king.

xoxoxo

Elrohir rode with Aragorn, his fingers restless and blood racing through his veins. He felt his anger build, his rage. It was useful. Bloodlust and a killing frenzy. He needed this, needed to be in the saddle, racing towards battle, sword flashing silver and streaked with blood. He needed the surging anger, the storm of fury to block out the torrent of guilt that threatened to flood every bone of his body.

Suddenly sunlight pierced through a small break in the cloud and glanced off silver swords, a spear, the silver molten script etched onto a bow, glinted gold on long hair that lifted slightly in the breeze. Cornsilk, light gold, pale gold, like cornsilk…Elrohir's breath caught for an instant and then the head turned and the spell was broken. Straight nose, high cheekbones, full sculpted lips curved in a generous laugh. The Mirkwood Elf leaned slightly towards Elladan and said something in a low voice. As their horses brushed together, Elladan's knee knocked against the other Elf's and his brother jumped like he had been bitten.

Elrohir clenched his teeth. He recognised that look on his brother's face, curiosity, the beginning of admiration. He spat a curse beneath his breath but it was his own reaction to the contact that bothered him.

'I am going to ask Legolas to scout ahead.' Aragorn seemed unaware of what had happened, his thoughts turned inward and focused on Gondor's terrible plight. 'We are too slow and he is the fastest rider of all of us when he is without the Dwarf.'

Elrohir did not reply, but his horse shied twice and shook his head at nothing.

xoxox

Legolas felt the emptiness at his back. He had grown so used to Gimli being there now that he rode without him, it was like a limb was missing. He smiled wryly as he glanced back at where the Dwarf was arguing with Aragorn about the wisdom of sending an Elf to scout on his own without the protection of a Dwarf.

Legolas turned away and urged Arod onwards. He let his senses ease and push gently out from his own skin. The Dead fell back, not in fear, not in anger… they just parted with a gentle sigh, like relief. Arod tossed his head and skittered a little so he spoke softly, reassuring him. He heard the sounds of the following Rangers edge in again behind him, like a tide coming in.

Low clouds were grey and roiled over the horizon, the black silhouette of pine trees on the ridge above him and the peaks of the mountains. On the other side of those mountains was Rohan. He remembered briefly warmth and golden hair, mussed in passion.

He urged Arod faster along the open paths once more; he looked West and caught a scent of something on the breeze… something that lightly caught the edge of his consciousness. .something that beckoned him onwards… he paused. He could not place it but it reminded him of something he had lost once but had found again. But it was faint and faraway and when the breeze fell, he lost the sensation.

It was not long before he saw the first animals. Two deer fled towards him, pausing only briefly before leaping away to the North and the mountains, and soon he saw flocks of birds high in the sky over the plains of the Lebennin and then he smelled the burning. It was already in his mind- the trees' song was anxious and murmurings of fire and death were in the air. There was no more time, they had run out. Gondor burned.

He wheeled Arod and started down from the high ridge towards the road where riding was easier and faster, and then as they emerged from the tree line, Arod caught the urgency and surged forwards, galloping along the dusty road that was no more than a cart track. His hoofs pounded the dry earth and the wind caught Legolas' hair, streaming it behind him.

By mid day he knew he must be approaching the Grey Company, he had slowed to let Arod breathe. Waiting for the Grey Company to appear, he felt the cold tendrils of the Dead before he could see the company. Their thin and trembling ghosts glimmered in the shadow of the mountains as the first horses appeared through the trees.

Then Aragorn appeared riding at the head of the company. He did not see Legolas at first and the Elf had time to assess the Man. He looked tired and drawn. Legolas knew the burden he carried now, the weight of expectation heavy upon him and for a moment it seemed to the Elf that all the Heirs of Isildur rode behind.

There was a shout; Halbarad had seen Legolas. He did not wave but cantered ahead of the company to meet Legolas. Aragorn followed close behind him.

'Is all well?' he asked anxiously. 'You have news?'

'Yes. There is burning along the Lebennin. Deer flee through the forest. There is a smell of burning and death.'

Aragorn did not pause but turned and shouted over his shoulder at the following company, 'We ride! Our time is come, Dúnedain, Guardians of the North, inheritors of Gondor! Minas Tirith is assailed. We go to War!'

A strange sound, like the wind sighing over the mountains surrounded them and grew and as the Rangers surged forwards to answer their Lord's command, the Shadow Host seemed to grow stronger and more substantial. They surged around the Grey Company and would have overtaken them had not Aragorn held them back. He rode at their head, tall, stern of face, lordly and with immense will he kept them onwards.

And so they came at last to the plains of Lebennin

TBC

Chapter three: The Black Ships


	3. The Black Ships

Disclaimer: Not mine of course. Just playing in ME.

As always, thanks to the wonderful Anarithilien for her betaing and suggestions to make this something readable and fun. And she has just posted a new chapter too.

And to reviewers who have encouraged me to get on with writing if it's raining! (Vectis!) Please do review- it is much easier to be motivated if you know people are waiting for you to post- otherwise, sometimes you just keep it in your head.

Warning: As before. Violence, mention of sexual violence.

And a reminder that this is AU- ish but follows the overall storyline with some shocking liberties taken.

Chapter 3: The Black Ships

The Grey Company rode fast, the pounding of hooves on the short turf, wind dragging its fingers through his hair, and the distant Sea teasing the edge of his senses. Elrohir shifted his weight slightly to glance behind him to where his brother rode, still with that Dwarf clinging to his back. Elladan seemed fascinated and was even now trying to converse with him. He kept glancing back over his shoulder and speaking, and the Dwarf would look up and shout 'Eh?'

In contrast, the Mirkwood Elf rode almost on his own, leaning slightly into the wind that swept from the West, from the Sea, sometimes eyes closed, head tilted, listening , for he could not quite have heard its call, but there, and again there, sometimes it just pricked the edge of his awareness. Elrohir knew, for he had already heard the Sea in his dreams on this road to Pelargir.

In this dream, he was once more standing on the quay, watching without seeing the grey ship that waited, its hull gently knocking against the grey stones of the harbour. He was aware of the grey water, white-rimmed, splashing, and of salt spray on his cold lips, but his focus was on the small figure moving along the quay towards the ship, huddled under a grey Lorien cloak, strands of golden cornsilk hair escaping. She seemed to have shrunk and the unkind wind buffeted her small frame. She huddled close to the wall as she was hurried away from him and he felt a knife pierce him as she disappeared. She did not even turn for one last look at her child.

He watched the white sail until it disappeared and the Sea swallowed her. The grey Sea. Endless. Restless. It lured him. The gulls wheeled and mewled like lost souls. He could not tear himself away from that desolation… in his dreams, he stood alone but he remembered that Elladan had been there too and had wept as their mother sailed away from them.

So he was prepared for the Sea, and he was ready for the tantalising Song that wound about his heartstrings and beckoned to him. But he was Noldor, and Peredhel at that, so he was strong and could withstand the longing that stirred in his heart. He did not hear the Song as their silvan kindred did, and he glanced across to see the Mirkwood Elf, as yet unaware that he was already helpless and lost in its net. Elrohir remembered the warning his Grandmother had sent, and hated the fact that he cared that the other Elf might die. Elrohir urged forward his black horse and they galloped onward on the road to the Sea.

xoxox

It was still dark on the third day. They had ridden from the Stone of Erech and had crossed the rivers, Ciril and Ringlo. In that gloom, the Shadow Host seemed to grow stronger and more terrible to look upon, some riding, some striding, yet all moving with the same great speed. Silent they were, but there was a gleam in their eyes. In the uplands of Lamedon they overtook the horses and swept around the quiet Grey Company, and would have passed them had not Aragorn forbidden them. He raised his hand and the black banner fluttered imperceptibly.

'Back! I command you,' he said. 'It is not yet time.' He did not raise his voice but so strong was his will that they fell back.*

At last Aragorn signalled a halt. The horses were tired and needed to rest. Elrohir was impatient but Aragorn gave him a rueful smile and dismounted, stretching his arms and slackening the girth on his horse. Other horses pulled up alongside and Dúnedain let their horses breathe, snatch at the grass and drink their fill from the streams that fed into the River Gilrain below.

There was no sunrise. Not even thin yellow light streaked the sky; the world seemed dimmed in twilight. Elrohir pulled his cloak about him and smoothed his gloves. He was glad they were not stopping long for his dreams haunted him still. He rested his hand against the warm shoulder of his horse, Barakhir, breathing in the clean sweat and warm animal smell. It soothed him, even though the still, silent ghosts thronged around them, and the quiet Dúnedain were even more silent than usual. Even he felt the cold prickling at the back of his neck and it was only the Mirkwood Elf who seemed unaffected. Elrohir squashed the surge of irritation that spiked through him at the thought- it was unworthy of him.

He felt his brother's presence nearby, calm, blue, cooling his spirit.

'Is it not strange?' Elladan said, his eyes animated and humorous, arms folded and watching the Mirkwood Elf who stood at the edge of the camp, and the Dwarf who watched him anxiously. 'Here are two that set out sworn enemies and yet one comforts the other in his fear. And is comforted in his turn.' Elladan glanced at his brother and flashed a smile so sweet his brother had to smile back. 'I find great hope in this, Elrohir. It makes me feel that Father was right to send them. That such a friendship flourishes in such times is a beacon for us.'

'You are fanciful,' Elrohir said amused. 'But if it gives you hope then I am glad.' He let the warmth flood him, ease his muscles and soothe his blood. Barakhir shifted slightly, nervously. At the edges of the brief camp, the shroud of grey ghosts hung, silent and still, tattered banners hung limply although there was the wind from the west.

His brother suddenly shivered. 'We are near the Sea.'

Elrohir looked at him for a moment then he said quietly, 'It is not the first time.' And his heart twisted to remember again the small huddled figure, the grey waves splashing on the stones of the quay. He had barely heard the call of the Sea that day, so wretched with grief he was. Now he barely heard his brother's reply.

'It is not our first time, but it is his.' Elladan glanced towards the Mirkwood Elf, who stood on his own, near the edge of the tight circle of the Grey Company. He leaned forwards slightly as if listening, listening to sounds that were deeper than the world, and his eyes were half closed as if in sleep. Elladan was an Elf, but he was Peredhel and no Wood Elf. He watched curiously for a while, for he had heard the stories of Mirkwood, and only believed half of them. Elrond's library was full of lore and only some of it accurate. He wondered what the other Elf heard.

'What is he listening to?' he wondered, 'Does he already listen for the Sea?'

'If he does, then he listens for his death.' Elrohir said brutally, 'He has been warned. He should not be here.'

Elladan glanced at his brother, concern and surprise on his fair face, 'He loves Aragorn, as we all do. He is sworn.'

'Ask yourself this, Elladan, is it not strange that he would rather be here than face his own people?' Elrohir sneered, and he saw Elladan flinch. But Elrohir continued relentlessly, 'Do you not wonder why he wishes to face Death rather than return home? Perhaps he cannot face them, cannot bear that he has abandoned them to the torment and violence of the Orcs.'

Elladan would not meet his gaze then and Elrohir felt a tight squeeze in his chest. He knew Elladan thought him unfair, knew too that his brother was drawn to the Mirkwood Elf, that he saw something desirable, worthy in him.

He had protected Elladan. Together they had searched those dreadful tunnels but it had been Elrohir who found her. And in that moment, all his delight in life had been sucked out of him. He had held her to him and told Elladan it was because he loved him that he did this. But Elrohir remembered the disbelief in his brother's eyes, for how could he know the agony of her distress. How could Elladan possibly understand what it was like to find her, with her torn rags and the smell of the Orc's semen upon her thighs? And it was that. That smell. He recognised it, for it was familiar. He almost gagged again with self-loathing at the memory. For he could not bear the smell of his own release since that moment.

Then he saw the pitying look in his brother's eyes and thought perhaps he guessed at something.

xoxox

Legolas stood at the very edge of the camp, where the shades of Men stood silent and still. He watched them even as they watched him; their eyes gleamed though there was no light, a forest of pale spears, thin threadbare banners amongst them. These forgotten Men, dishonoured and penitent, their armour archaic and heavy, were ranked before him, soldiers, archers, riders. A ghostly horse snorted and for a moment he imagined himself standing with Isildur himself in the Last Alliance. He almost expected to see Oropher striding out, buckling on his heavy sword and the round shield that now hung in Thranduil's halls, forest green pennants streaming, snapping in the wind… Elendil standing tall with Gil-Galad, shining and valiant… These dishonoured Men had seen them all, had witnessed the last battle. And despaired. There were so many songs beneath the one song they shared, the notes that strung together, the chords that made up their song. But it soothed them that he listened and Legolas found he could not ignore their insistent, whispered pleas...

Long have I lain in the grave of my own making, long unheard…

…Not felt the brush of the wind, the whisper of tall grass...

Aye, naught but silent graves, empty bones forlorn

…so long dead; so lonely...

We have forgotten the beat of blood in our veins,

the pulse of flesh…

Only the creak of old bones, crumbling into dust, decay….

We have lived in darkness, in utter silence, stillness.

Forgotten the throb of blood, the feel of flesh, the snap of sinew, hunger and thirst….

Steel rusts, crumbles, light fades, darkness only…

…I have needed to feel the wind rushing past me, to hear the drumming of horses galloping and the ring of steel and stirrup, to see the high cloud and huge empty skies…

He could not help but listen, for it was a long ago echo of the Song of one he loved, and it reminded him of Rohan, of the wind across the steppe and the wild horses wheeling, galloping across the plains beneath the high blue sky…..He became aware of movement in the grey shroud that surrounded them a whisper of anticipation, of yearning. They longed to be free. And lightly across the edge of their Song, lay another, like a skein of silk, a deeper, endless note that breathed and soughed, and whispered of home…

He opened his eyes to see Gimli's earth-brown eyes steadily regarding him. The Dwarf breathed out with relief and Legolas blinked, bringing himself back into the present once more.

'Aragorn has been asking for you…' the Dwarf was saying, his hand straying to his beard and tangling his fingers in the forked braids. Legolas smiled slightly to reassure him and drew in a breath. The echo of the Shadow Host's memories still haunted him but he looked away, seeking the Man. 'Over there.' Gimli nodded, 'He's been restless as a cat in a forge.'

When had a Dwarf ever been so dear to an Elf, Legolas wondered? Had even Celebrimbor been as devoted to Narvi? But they had not been battle companions. He wondered what he would tell his father… and a hot knife of pain twisted in his heart suddenly.

And if Gimli Gloinsson could read his thoughts he did not say, but he put a warm, capable hand on the Elf's arm. 'We can only do what we can do, Legolas. And you and I have done all we can. Peace. Aragorn needs you.'

Legolas stirred and looked about himself. The company was preparing to leave and some were already mounted.

'I did not know…' he murmured, 'Has so much time passed?'

'Yes. You've been too busy staring at those ghosties. So were you singing to each other or were you telling them a bedtime story?' Gimli smoothed his beard and tucked it into his belt. The braids were coming loose.

Legolas noticed and he ran a quick hand over his own braids to check everything was in place. He felt warmth steal over him and smiling, he leaned over and patted Gimli on the head; he knew it would both delight and irritate the Dwarf. He was rewarded by an astounded snort, as he expected.

'Legolas!' Aragorn's voice interrupted them. 'Tell me what you see.'

The Elf and Dwarf quickened their pace so they stood alongside their friend.

Behind them, where the sun should have risen, the Mountains loomed darkly. Ahead, the world was grey and dim, like a great storm threatened. All colour seemed to have seeped from the world and Legolas narrowed his eyes to see black smoke billowing across the fields below. Fire licked lightly at the edge of the river and turned the flickering water red. Black ships, their sails low, pulled ever closer to the shore where he could make out the shapes of Men fighting, blades catching the firelight and gleaming red as the river.

'The fords are below?' he looked at Aragorn. In the strange half light the Elf looked unearthly, his own colour leeched by the threatening storm. Silver and grey, his eyes reflected the light like a cat's, and on the Lorien bow it seemed the runes were molten silver.

Aragorn stared but this was the least he had seen. 'That will be Linhir,' he answered.

'Black ships from Umbar have sailed up the river to contest the fords with the Men of this land,' Legolas said. 'There are many ships and Men pour from them like beetles. There are very few Men on the shore and there is fire all along the edge of the river– that will be where the town is I think. They have set the town on fire.' He turned to the Man and Dwarf, both squinting into the distance trying to see what he described. 'There are Orcs among them,' he said and then he bared his teeth and they gleamed white. He looked at Gimli. 'There are enough even for you my friend.'

Aragorn turned quickly and even as Halbarad hurried to his side the Rangers were already hastening to mount. 'Make ready and fast!' he called, striding quickly to his own grey horse and pulling the girth tight. 'The town is under attack from the river. They have sailed up the coast and contest the fords.' He put his foot in the stirrup and swung astride the horse. Legolas turned and grasped Gimli's arm, swinging both himself and the Dwarf astride Arod in one easy motion and surged forwards at Aragorn's side.

Aragorn's face was grim and stern. The great banner was unfurled and fluttered, and it seemed the white tree caught a sliver of moon or sun for it glowed with an eerie light against the dark. It was the moment Aragorn truly was revealed. Gone was the careworn Ranger. Here was Isildur's Heir, the last of the race of Numenor, noblest and proudest of Men. Elessar.

Elrohir approached him swiftly, still on foot, his sable cloak swirled and he held out the silver horn. Elessar lifted it to his lips and blew. The sound was unearthly – growing slowly in strength and volume. To Legolas it was the sound of Orome's horn. The ghostly pennants that had hung still and lifeless now fluttered a little and then one ray of light broke through the massing cloud, and seemed to glint off the forest of spears.

For a moment there was absolute stillness, and then a long sound like a sigh. The wind shimmered and trembled across the darkened grass. Then that moment of utter stillness was broken by a sound like waves breaking as the Dúnadan and his Shadow Host charged down the slopes of Lamedon and down to Linhir.

Legolas heard the Dwarf shouting his gleeful battle cry, was aware of two sable chargers galloping alongside them, a glint of steel from their riders' swords. He heard the great banner of the White Tree tug in the wind and Aragorn overtook them, his sword raised high. Legolas felt the Dwarf unhitch his axe even as he reached behind him and strung his bow.

Suddenly they were overtaken by a storm, a grey tide that rushed past them and he saw the gleam in the eyes of Men long dead, heard the echo of horns blowing… distant, faded songs brushed his senses… and forgotten pennants streamed in the wind… the distant clash of swords that had rusted and been destroyed by time and only the memory of them remained in the ghostly hands of riders long dead… he listened even as they surged past him.

But in his chest was a growing excitement that was not battle lust, a scent on the air he had never smelt before but that was as familiar as his own. A keenness in the wind that fluttered in his breast. He glanced around him, suddenly his senses stretched out beyond the battle and he thought he heard his father's voice. But the sky was grey and low above him and he was far away from home.

Suddenly they were in it. The heat from the burning town seared his skin, the crackle of the flames and stink of blood. Around him was screaming and the terrible clash of steel in flesh, in bone and sinew; the noise of war.

The Men of Lamedon turned wearily to face this new onslaught and there was a terrible cry that was taken up.

'The King of the Dead! The King of the Dead is come!'

Warriors fell terrified to the churned and muddy ground, spears were thrown away and Men began a maddened scramble to escape. The Grey Company charged forwards, swords aloft and battle light in their eyes. Archers dropped their arrows and fled. Men who had been wading ashore with the red fire of battle and lust in their eyes turned and scrambled to get back to their ships, which hastily unfurled their dark sails and lurched to catch a wind. For the terror that went with the Grey Company was the only weapon they needed.

Gimli was pulling at Legolas' arm, wanting to get to the ground and swing his axe, so he slowed enough for the Dwarf to slide down. They glanced at each other briefly and nodded, 'Forty- Two,' said the Dwarf resolutely and laughed loudly. Legolas grinned back and immediately killed two Orcs with one arrow.

'Forty- three.' He said cheekily and careered off into the battle, forgetting the strange keening in his breast and the warning of Galadriel. For this was not the Sea and there were no gulls. There was only the here and now.

xxxoooxxxx

Elrohir had heard the gleeful shout from the Dwarf and the even louder shout of the Mirkwood Elf and together those two had plunged into the fray like it was a friendly competition rather than a full blooded battle. He had seen the Rohirrim warhorse charge forwards, and sweep past his own black steed, his thigh jostled against the other Elf briefly and then in a flash of steel and gold, Legolas was gone, disappearing into the grey fog that was the Shadow Host, amongst the pale ghostly banners that did not need the wind to fly but seemed to snap and stream in the memory of some great storm. Gimli had lost his fear of the dead it seemed with the prospect of adding to their numbers and Elrohir could hear the clash of steel of his great war axe amidst the screaming and terrible din of battle.

He urged his own horse to follow and saw the Mirkwood Elf emerge and disappear again like he was lost in the billowing waves of a storm.

His own sword flashed and struck either side of him, flesh sucking the blade as if reluctant to release it. There was such panic amongst the Men from Umbar that they fled and it was too easy to strike them down. Elrohir pulled back a little to gauge where he would have most effect and glanced around to find his brothers. Then he charged forward into the midst of the fleeing host and plunged his sword into the stomach of a Man, his upturned face fixed in fear. Elrohir did not pause or think. He turned and slashed across the face of an Orc and Barakhir surged out from the fray for a moment before plunging back in again.

He found himself near the river and the black ships rocked and pushed against the turning of the tide. The river seemed to run with blood but he looked again and saw it was the red flames reflected in the black water. Pirates thrashing through the black water to the ships called to their shipmates for help but they were too busy trying to raise the sails to help their drowning crewmates. The terror of the Shadow Host was upon them.

Legolas was suddenly beside him, with neither Dwarf nor horse, but fighting on foot and pulling his knives out of a Corsair pirate. He whirled and his blades flashed silver and red, plunging down and then flashing up again, gleaming crimson. An Orc fell beneath his blades. His green tunic was spattered with blood and a thin scarlet ribbon wound down his cheek. Elrohir had seen silvans before in battle, heard their unearthly battle song, seen in their eyes the glazed bloodlust - like a trance. But he wanted to stare at this Elf, to watch the savagery and killing. He knew the pounding of his own blood was not only from exertion.

xxoooxxx

Nestor could hear the battle raging outside the ship and strained against the chains that kept him bound. His huge muscles bunched and he pulled at the metal links until he felt he would burst. His fellow slaves looked at him, some with pity, some with resignation. They knew he would do this until he exhausted himself. It had happened often.

Anor shook his head beside the big Man and muttered something Nestor could not hear.

'I will not give up, Anor. Not until I am free,' he ground out through his teeth, picking up the chains once again and heaving at the welded cuffs on his wrists.

'I know.' Anor replied softly, and although he had given up long ago, it was clear also that he wanted Nestor to carry on his futile efforts and to rage and strain against the captivity. It gave him hope.

There was a sudden sound of wood scraping and metal and the hold opened.

'They are back.' Anor was suddenly frightened. Last time Nestor had been discovered standing with the heavy chains in his hands, he had earned himself a flogging that would have killed a lesser Man. 'Sit down, Nestor. Quickly.'

But Nestor still stood, the heavy cuffs on his wrists gleamed with a slick of blood. He bowed his head and said quietly so only Anor could hear, 'I cannot give up. If Fatsia comes I will strangle him with his own chain. I cannot bear to hear the cries and piteous weeping above while I sit here and do nothing!'

A thin ray of light pierced the absolute gloom and some of the men groaned and tried to hide their eyes. Nestor braced himself and lowered his hands so none might see he had the heavy chain caught ready to wrap around the throat of any pirate within striking distance.

The thin light was suddenly obscured as a figure appeared, bright with sudden sunlight. Golden hair gleamed and a strong and beautiful face smiled down at him. Like one of the Valar. Nestor's mouth dropped open. He wondered if he was dead. And then the figure spoke. 'We have come to release you if you will fight for Gondor.'

'Gondor?' Nestor could hardly believe it, he was dreaming surely? 'You are from Gondor? You have come to release us?'

'Well not exactly from Gondor,' the man called and then he leaped the twenty feet of so from the deck to the floor of the hold without seeming to stumble or even pause for breath. 'I hail from further North but I am bound for Gondor.' He grasped the huge chains that bound the slaves and looked about for a key.

'The key!' groaned Anor, beside him, 'Fatsia will have had it with him. The big bastard in the green …' He stopped because there was a small click and the shackles broke. The stranger glanced up at him with the brightest, strangest eyes he had ever seen, and he felt a strange familiarity wash over him. In his fingers a thin white knife gleamed. 'You just picked the lock? You must be good!

'Oh I am.' The stranger declared with a grin. 'The best!'

Nestor stared, 'Are you a fool or an angel?'

'Neither I hope. My father would not have any fools and I am no angel.' The grin that lit the stranger's face confirmed his words were wicked and full of glee 'Now, come, above and meet the one who will lead you to freedom'

Nestor rattled the chains that bound him to his fellows and with a mighty roar he pulled the heavy clanking chains through the rings that secured them one against the other. The stranger whipped round, his long pale gold hair swirled and the next thing, Anor was standing, amazed and staring in astonishment at his unmanacled hands. The chafed wrists were weeping with sores and the stranger's face changed slightly when he saw this. But he did not pause but strode between the benches stooping and freeing slave after slave.

There was a thud and another stranger appeared. He was tall and lithe like the first, but his black hair was held back by a leather band and his grey eyes glittered in disgust. Nestor admitted the smell was probably terrible to someone unused to it.

He said something in a foreign tongue to their saviour, who glanced back with an impassive expression and replied in the same language. Nestor did not recognise what they said but the new stranger shook his head sadly and turned away.

Suddenly the light was blotted out by several faces looking down into the hold. There was a flurry of voices and then the ladder was lowered and the tall stranger with black hair caught it and secured it deftly.

'Come my friends,' he beckoned to the captives who were staring. 'You are free. We have defeated your captors and this ship is yours to return to your homes.' Nestor later thought they should have cheered, but they could not believe it, so cowed and pitiful were they.

Nestor ushered Anor up first; the man had not seen sunlight for months now and had been sorely used by the Corsairs. He pushed each man forwards and then up into the daylight until only he and one other remained with the two strangers.

The golden-haired man was bending over the last chained captive, a boy captured in a raid only a month ago off Dol Amroth. He gently raised the boy by his arms. The boy had been thrown in here after two days of hell above decks; Nestor knew what he would have endured. Sitting at the front of the benches he heard the first mate talking and the drunken jeers of the Corsairs. The boy's face had been swollen with crying and his bruised lips and eyes told Nestor everything he needed to know.

Nestor made as if to approach but the other held his hand and stopped him.

'No, let him be for a moment. He will come...'

Nestor looked at the stranger for a moment, met his strange green eyes that had pupils wide as a cat's in that dark hold. Then he nodded and smiled. His heart felt suddenly at ease and he remembered the sound of the farm he had left behind to seek his fortune at Sea, and the laugh of his children at play.

He turned to follow the other men up the ladder when he paused. He thought... he almost heard… but it had gone… and in his heart was a deep longing for home and he thought he smelled the sea on the wind.

Emerging from that dark hole, he expected to find the sunlight, and clouds whipping along a bright blue sky, white foam scudding over the water. Instead, low dark clouds hung pensively over the sullen landscape and the water churned darkly around the ships. Masts clanked and black sails hung limply for there was no wind. On the shore there was burning and flames shot up from a building as it slowly crumbled and fell.

Nestor quickly found Anor. He was standing near the other freed captives, wondering at their new found freedom and staring at the terrible scene of battle on the shore.

'Where is the man who freed us?' demanded one – a man from Lebennin. He was a big gruff man with fiery red hair and a beard that was matted and uncombed. But his eyes were black with anger at those who had imprisoned him. 'We will follow him, will we not, my fellows?'

'It is not I who released you in truth,' the stranger seemed to appear from nowhere. The other stranger led the boy from the hold into the strange twilight. 'It is another who led the forces who freed you- look yonder, for that is his symbol. The White Tree!'

A murmur went up – the White Tree? That was surely Isildur's line…?

'Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Isildur's Heir,' said the other stranger, the dark one.

'Will you fight for Aragorn?' another voice joined them. He too had raven-black hair and his grey eyes glittered with a terrible bloodlust that had not yet seeped from his bones. Nestor stared. He was the twin of the other, but there seemed a darkness over him that was not over his brother.

Nestor stared for suddenly a breeze stroked the hair back from their faces and he saw a pointed ear. Elves!

He looked in astonishment at those who had freed him and his fellow slaves. Two Elves, identical, black haired, grey eyes, strong, tall, clad in black tunics of fine cloth and girded with fine swords. They stood on the deck side by side and looked out at the destruction on the shore. One raised his hand and pointed. A man rode a grey horse along the shoreline and the men who had been fighting now dropped their weapons and knelt before him. One man, his armour notched and dented but still standing proudly drew near and bent his knee before the man on the horse.

'Behold Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Isildur's Heir.' said one of the twin Elves.

'Will you follow him? Take this ship and sail to Pelargir, for we will have need of you there,' said the other.

Nestor lifted his head and grinned 'Aye!' he shouted and his voice was joined by his fellows, free at last and ready to fight.

He looked at the other Elf, the one who had freed them. He was standing near the stern of the ship, one hand on the rigging and the other on his knife. He gazed out across the silver expanse of water. The wind rippled his long pale hair over one shoulder and teased it into long silk strands. He did not look towards the shore however where the Heir of Isildur rode. He looked West towards the Sea.

Tbc

* ROTK The Last Debate

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	4. Lust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Posted two today as I am catching up on posting.

Disclaimer: Not mine, not for profit, just for fun.

AU-ish but follows the book plotline.

Thanks to Anarithilien for not only being a brilliant beta but actually tracking the number of days it took for them to get to Minas Tirith. And to the wonderful reviewers, Savingfics, Melusine and Spiced Wine, but thank you for the guests kudos too. The kudos is a nice touch on this site. 

Chapter 4: Lust.

It was no good. The lust was still in his veins. He had not spent himself in the violence of the battle- it had not satisfied him. It did not cool his blood. They had driven the allies of Mordor in rout before them, slaughtering the Orcs that fled before the Sons of Elrond, the Sons of Thunder. But it was not enough. It never was.

Elrohir gazed over the uplands of Lamedon across the high mountains that edged between Rohan and Gondor. The grey twilight had not lifted and still the heavy clouds lowered and massed from the East, a purple tinge at their centre. Only occasionally did a spear of sunlight pierce the gloom. Barakhir tossed his head and the silver bit jangled. His rider smoothed his glossy black neck and murmured soothingly but the stallion was restless as he. He walked the deserted town of Linhir, for foe and friend alike had fled at the coming of the King of the Dead. The Shadow Host was barely visible and hung like tattered shrouds now that battle was done, but they too, were unsatisfied.

xoxox

Gimli rummaged in his pack, an irritated scowl on his face. He had carefully assessed the state of the ruined walls so he knew they were safe, and even better, the Dead were the other side from him so he did not have to keep looking at them, or through them more like. Aragorn had commanded them to stay back and Gimli for one, was glad. He glimpsed Legolas leaping lightly over the strewn boulders and stones towards him. Even in the grey half light the Elf still looked cheerful. He had a bundle of scavenged arrows tucked under one arm and in his free hand he carried his long Lorien bow. Gimli glanced upwards, to the heavy sky and the huge clouds massing in the East.

'How many?' he asked the Elf, a little smugly. His axe had drunk well this day and blackened the earth with blood of the fell folk of Umbar and Harad.

Legolas looked nonchalant for a moment and then laughed. 'You first.'

'Fifty one.' The Dwarf stroked the long beautifully carved handle of his axe, smoothed it like it was a lover.

'Aha. Well I have bested you by far, for I think there must have been at least thirty alone on that warship.' He picked up each arrow and sighted carefully along it before dropping it into his quiver. The warship's sails had been unfurled and full, the oars plunging into the waves as the pirates tried to escape. A flaming arrow, well-aimed, had quickly set fire to the sails and seemingly moments later, the ship had been a fiery silhouette against the dark sky.

'You cannot have that.' Gimli scowled, recalling the moment with absolute clarity of Dwarvish memory. 'That was one arrow and it was pure luck. You do not even know it your arrow that set the sails alight. Ships are notorious for catching fire suddenly.' He sniffed at the Elf's delighted laugh and continued, 'Anyway, it was my idea to soak the arrow in tar so I ought to have it really. And they drowned. You did not kill them,' he added, just in case.

xoxox

Elladan smiled. He was watching the Elf and Dwarf bickering quietly over who had killed the most Orcs. It had been going on for some time and every time it seemed one of them acquiesced, the other would start up again with some other point. This was the third time they had had the argument about the war ship and both enjoyed it as much as when they started. Gandalf must be impossibly smug. It had been at his insistence after all that these two were chosen, and a Mirkwood Elf above all those in Imladris. He drew out his whetstone from his own pack, smiling to himself. He rather liked Mirkwood's reputation and the rather sedate elves in Imladris had tutted and shook their heads at the scandalous stories of Thranduil's' halls. In fact, he admitted to himself easily, he wanted to know this Elf rather better. He stretched out his long legs and settled himself, whetstone in one hand, sword in the other, to listen to the bickering.

'It is good to see you whole and well, Elladan.' A voice above him said and he looked up. Aragorn stood above him, his head dark against the heavy sky. Elladan felt a shiver creep up his spine and realised how close, how close, after all these years and generations of hiding Isildur's Heir, that finally, they were within a breath. He smiled slowly, a little sadly, for soon they would lose him….

'I was thinking about Dwarves and Elves,' he said.

'Ah,' Aragorn smiled back. 'They have so much more in common than you would think.' He pulled out his pipe and searched his long coat for pipeweed.

Elladan looked back at the Elf and Dwarf. 'I remember Gloin arriving with Gandalf and thinking then I would like to see more of dwarves if I could. I wished I could be spared to ride with them for I would then have passed through Thranduil's halls also and perhaps know better what Mirkwood offers.'

'We know what Mirkwood offers,' a voice joined them. Elladan felt the prickling of his twin's irritation and wondered anew at this hostility. 'They are reckless and irresponsible. They cannot be trusted and I have seen nothing to suggest that this one is any different.' Elrohir threw his cloak down beside them but remained standing, sword still sheathed at his side.

'How can you say that?' Aragorn demanded, turning to face Elrohir. 'What more does he have to do to prove his worth to you?'

Elladan drew his whetstone along the edge of his blunted, notched sword, listening, watching his brothers carefully.

'It was not so long ago that you said the same yourself,' Elrohir snapped and Elladan winced, remembering Aragorn's harsh words to Legolas at the Council; that he had failed in his trust. Elladan tentatively stretched out his awareness to his twin, seeking the source of this strange antipathy. He knew Elrohir had begged to be allowed to go on this quest and been refused, but surely that alone could not account for it. No. There was something more, deeper. He had not been the same since they had bid farewell to their mother.

'I was a fool then.' Aragorn replied. Elrohir had the grace to look away from the hurt in Aragorn's eyes, but his stance was all fury and trembling. 'He has followed me here even though Galadriel foretold his death.' Aragorn stood facing Elrohir, unexpected and uncharacteristically challenging his brother. 'He stood by me in Moria, in Helm's Deep, before Saruman. Even though that was terrible, he did not flinch or cower.' He lowered his voice, suddenly aware of others. Legolas after all, was nearby. 'How can you still say these things?' he hissed.

But the voices of Dwarf and Elf had already stopped and Elladan had seen Legolas retreat, too late to warn Aragorn. He had noted the tilt of Legolas' head and the surreptitious glance their way whilst they had discussed him. And Elladan had not expected to catch the glance, or to be so off balanced by the intensity of the Woodelf's gaze. Elladan, Son of Elrond, descended from Melian and Luthien amongst others, was unused to being taken aback by Man, Elf or even Wizard. But something in this Elf's gaze made him pause; perhaps it was the knowledge that he had been speaking of this Elf's death, or that Legolas' knowledge of it but refusal to back away from his fate somehow touched him more deeply than he had expected. Perhaps it was coloured by the love he bore Aragorn and that Aragorn was the reason this Elf risked his life … Perhaps it was all those things. But whatever it was, Elladan of Imladris paused to look again.

'I do not understand you.' Aragorn approached Elrohir, hand outstretched, grey eyes concerned.

Elrohir shied away lightly and his hand clenched around the pommel of his sword.

It was only then that Elladan felt a brief chink in the wall of anger his brother had erected around himself. He felt the raw pain. He almost gasped with the intensity and he too reached out to Elrohir.

'Why do you hate him?' Elladan asked gently, 'Yet I know also that you watch him?'

'I do not hate him. And I watch him because I do not trust him.' Elrohir ground out between his clenched teeth, unable to look at his gentle brother or speak further. 'It is nothing!' He threw his hand out to stop Elladan from speaking. His long black hair swirled about his shoulders and he broke away from them.

All Elladan could do was stare after him.

xoxoxo

Legolas had strapped his quiver to his back, picked up his bow, checked his knives and walked away from the sound of the sons of Elrond arguing, over him! Elrohir's words stung more than they should, for he had, like all young warriors, long admired the sons of Elrond. It hurt that the heroes of his youth thought so little of him. He turned towards the river, thinking the sound of it would soothe him. Walking out along the quay that jutted into the river, he stood gazing far out, far away down river. The sound of the masts clanking and sails soughing, water splashed gently at the hull of ships waiting…

He felt a strangeness in his chest again, a fluttering excitement. He knew there was peril ahead and was ready for that. Every time he ventured out in his father's realm he faced the possibly of death. How could he turn aside now just for some riddle from Galadriel? No, that was not the way of his folk either. He leaned towards the river. A brief shaft of sunlight pierced the heavy black clouds and stroked the river silver-black, like liquid mercury, and he felt the air subtly change. He leaned into the warmer air that came up from the west…it felt so familiar that again he thought it must be that he longed for home.

xoxoxox

Elrohir's long strides took him to the grey stone quay, he strode quickly to the very end, beyond the ships that were tied there. He did not see another figure standing out at the farthest point just beyond him. All his thoughts were turned inward.

He drew in a deep breath, wanting stillness, trying to find the centre of himself where there was peace so he could think, understand. The river wound bleakly through the darkened lands and the clouds still grew, towering bruised thunderheads. The air was so heavy he thought it might break.

He rubbed his face with his hands. This delight in bloodshed he knew was not the way of Elves, in spite of the bloody past of the Noldor. He knew he bathed in it, slaked his thirst in it in a way his brother did not, that Elladan's quest was purer than his own dark hatred.

And then the dark memories surged and pulsed around him and as usual, he pushed them away… but then, something that was pure in his own heart stopped him. It was this… this dreadful memory that haunted his dreams.

In the caves again, the heat and darkness pressing close, beneath his skin. The stench. Orc. Dried blood and bones, putrefying meat. And excrement and urine. It was horrific. He eased himself through the darkness that seemed thicker than air, like viscous liquid, like thick water- oil perhaps… he pushed away the horror of it and instead focused on sounds … a muffled sob? Heavy breaths… He stopped, listened, stretched out his senses… and realised what he heard, for he was no innocent himself. And then the red hot anger and fury blazed through his blood and he could not stop.

No. He put his face in his hands. No. He could not think on it anymore. He could not bear it. He gagged at the smell on his mother's thighs and he could never ever forget that. Nor could he bear it. For they said Orcs were Elves once and if he ever needed proof, he had it.

A sound nearby, the scuff of feet barely heard on the stone quay drew his attention. He turned, furious. Was there nowhere he could be alone with time to think!

Legolas was standing on the stone quay, one hand on the stone wall and the other on his knife. He was gazing out west, across the black-silver expanse of water. The wind rippled his long long hair, the colour of grass in winter, rapture on his face, eyes half closed and lips parted … Elrohir forgot to breathe.

He felt that unbidden unwanted rage of lust, and wanted to hurt him, and the hard bunch of pain and anger in his chest rose up, unwound a little. He lurched forward and struck before he could think.

A strong hand caught his fist before it could strike. And intense sea green eyes, green as if they had absorbed all the colour of the sea pierced him as intensely as his own pain.

'Why do you do this?' Elrohir spat, fire blazing in his eyes. 'Why do you delight in this? Why have you not turned away and gone home? Why are you still here where you are so clearly unnecessary? And for that matter, unclean.' He pulled his clenched fist away from the Woodelf's grasp. 'I have heard the story that Saruman showed your father slain whilst you dallied with Rohirrim whores. Why are you still here?'' Even as he spoke, he felt the words kindle like flames and leap, uncontrolled like wildfire into the waiting darkness.

He met the cold gaze of the woodland Elf. Fire and ice, and full of suppressed fury.

Elrohir would have taken a step back had he not been filled with his own rage. He could almost see sparks from the contact and his fingers tingled where he crushed the other Elf's arm. He felt the muscles tense under his.

'I do not answer to you, Elrondion.' Legolas glared down at where Elrohir grasped his arm.

'You will answer to me. You will tell me why you are still here.'

Legolas tore his arm from Elrohir's grasp and turned away. Elrohir's blood pounded in his veins, there was a roaring in his ears.

He surged forwards once more and again caught the arm of the other. 'I have not finished.'

'Well I have.' Legolas shrugged him off. He lifted his head proudly and walked away, disdain curling his lip.

Something in Elrohir snapped.

He launched himself at the Woodelf's back and they went crashing down on the stones. Legolas struggled furiously and punched his fist into the other's gut. At the same time he rolled and sprang to his feet. He whirled round, fists clenched and kicked out, sweeping at Elrohir's legs, Elrohir leaped back out of range.

On the riverbank, a cry came, but neither Legolas not Elrohir paid it any heed. Nor did they see the figure start running along the stone quay towards them.

'You dare attack me,' hissed Legolas, following Elrohir. 'On your guard Elrondion. Do this properly. I will let you draw but then it is over.'

Elrohir drew back, breathing hard; he stared at the Elf who was now his enemy. There was blood on his lip. 'Good.' Elrohir snarled back.

Legolas' eyes glittered like ice and Elrohir, swordsman that he was famed to be, took stock of his opponent. He knew he was wrong; Legolas had cause to be injured and angry. He had none. But he could not draw back. Not with knives drawn and blood on Legolas' mouth.

Halbarad suddenly thrust his way between them, breathing hard. 'What has gone on here?' he demanded.

Legolas ignored him and pushed past. One-handed, he unfastened his Lorien brooch and threw the cloak on the wall. He placed his bow carefully against the wall and unbuckled his quiver, placing it next to his bow. He pulled his suede tunic over his head and threw that down defiantly so he stood clad in only a thin linen shirt and his breeches. Then in one graceful move, he stooped and drew his knives, there was a slash of steel. He turned and stood facing them. The cold wind teased his hair but he did not move a muscle.

Halbarad caught Elrohir's sleeve. 'What are you doing you fool?' he hissed, 'You fight our allies? Save your breath for the fight to come…' But when he saw the determined anger in Elrohir's eyes, he sighed and then said bitterly. 'You let the Dark One win. Here are allies and you would risk injuring one who has put himself between Aragorn and danger time and time again, who has guarded the Ringbearer and who is charged by your father to…' Elrohir shook him off.

'Be silent. You know nothing.' He said before he could think. His mind was clouded by ferocity and lust. He felt the familiar surge of desire, but it was more intense this time. He wanted this, had needed it ever since the Mirkwood Elf had riled him so. He wanted to put him in his place, to show him the mettle of the Noldor, to remind him what he was, an Elf from a woodland backwater…. He stopped, suddenly surprised at his own vehemence.

A cool voice interrupted. 'In your own time.'

Legolas was standing, weight slightly forwards on the balls of his feet, twin blades held loosely at his sides. But he was all coiled energy and power. Elrohir recognised the combat stance of Woodelves he had trained with in Lorien and supposed Mirkwood not so different. He had the advantage. And he was a swordsman. Legolas had told him to draw and he did, sliding the long elven blade from its sheath and grasping it in the two handed stance he used for this heavy broadsword, he fell into combat stance, waiting. It reached almost his own height and he knew the other Elf would have no weapon to match it.

Legolas moved, so his long white knives were held out and crossed before him. He scraped the edge of one against the other slightly, the blades slid smoothly and Elrohir knew then this was no friendly unarmed spar. But this was what he wanted, needed. He needed to rid himself of this, to spend himself…and he wanted to force this Elf to submit to him.

Elrohir became aware of more voices, on the riverbank raised in concern,, but he did not turn.

Halbarad pushed his way past Elrohir now to Legolas and stood toe to toe with him, looking him in the eye. 'If I cannot get sense into the head of the son of Elrond, have I hope of getting through to the Son of Thranduil?' he demanded.

'No.' Legolas barely glanced at the Man. He focused his glare on Elrohir, now slightly crouched, his sword held before him. Legolas' thumbs caressed the ivory handles, worn smooth and perfect.

Halbarad glared at them both and whirled away.

'Is this the Noldor way?' Legolas asked sarcastically. 'Take your time and let your blood cool? Do you have no Sylvan in your veins? I thought you a child of Celebrian.'

That did it. Elrohir roared. He threw himself at the Woodelf. Clashing steel met steel and slid off. He spun round and charged, whirling the sword in both hands before him. Legolas would have had no chance, but he sidestepped neatly and whacked Elrohir with the flat on one of his blades.

Elrohir gasped and drew back. Cool. Cool. Cold anger – let it fill my veins, he thought, realising that Legolas had deliberately goaded him into losing his temper. He narrowed his eyes. 'So Oropher's fool has bred no fool. Perhaps you are not his fool.'

Legolas smiled coldly.

Elrohir thought he would not be goaded it seemed and the Woodelf clashed his blades once more. A Mirkwood habit, Elrohir thought. It was unnerving, but he was the best swordsman in Middle Earth and this Elf only had knives.

He stood on guard and lunged suddenly, his own blade hurtled and slid past Legolas' knives and struck his sleeve. The thin shirt tore slightly and when he drew back his blade there was bright red blood.

Legolas only smiled grimly and circled.

Suddenly a spear of sunlight caught on the Woodelf's blades and flashed and dazzled. In that moment he was blinded slightly and Elrohir heard the wind swish near his ear and felt a slight nick. It stung under the other Elf's attack and he fell back to a defensive crouch, a flashing whirl of silver came at him and he felt a tear along his cheek and then Legolas was on the other side of him. He lunged and parried, turning swiftly to block and then thrust past the other. Legolas dipped and sped back out of range.

Focused solely on each other, unaware that along the quay, there was a shout from Halbarad and two tall figures were running along the riverbank, a shorter, stockier figure following closely. Halbarad ran to meet them, beckoning, shouting, his cloak caught by the sudden flurry of wind that came off the river.

Blood streaked down the Woodelf's arm, and the two Elves suddenly burst into a flurry of blows and then broke apart, paused to stare at each other, watching for the slightest move, a flicker in the eyes.

Legolas was absolutely inscrutable. Elrohir could read nothing – not a muscle moved in the Woodelf's face, his eyes stayed steadily on his and there was no warning when he suddenly strode forward, blades flashing again in the brief sun. Elrohir knew now that Legolas used the sunlight to his advantage and was, for a moment, glad that the sky was so overcast and sullen but for those sudden gaps in the heavy cloud. He met the twin blades easily and slid his own sword up to cut the knuckles of his opponent.

Legolas hissed but then he flashed a feral grin. He brought his fist to his lips and licked the blood off his own knuckle, his eyes fastened on Elrohir's all the time. Elrohir's own lips parted and he stared. The blood stained Legolas' mouth red. Elrohir wanted suddenly to lick those lips, to crush them...

Then the Mirkwood Elf turned, and stalked away, deliberately, tauntingly showing Elrohir his back.

Elrohir's focus narrowed, all on Legolas now as he turned again to face him. The Mirkwood Elf stood tall and strong, wary and although his knives were loosely held at his sides now, there was no mistaking the absolute focus and tension. Elrohir stared, realising his opponent was beautiful and thrilling. His own blood thrummed with excitement. This fierce uncompromising warrior matched him, not in sword skill but in his own strength and vigour. He imagined Legolas beneath him, writhing and struggling.

He breathed in through his nose and then exploded into action. His sword rang steel against steel and the song of the battle rang in the air. Elrohir leaped and arced his wrists so the blade slid along the shorter knives, then he twisted and flicked up, but the steel just slid off and Legolas was no longer there. He followed, determined to keep the contact, blade on blade, and used his own sword to push the lighter blades up, twisting beneath his own arms and then suddenly pulling back to thrust. Legolas' eyes widened and he pulled out of the clinch just as Elrohir thrust forward, the long sword blade skimming along his skin instead of piercing as he had intended.

Elrohir breathed deeply, blood, the scent of blood in his nostrils and he saw his enemy had more respect now, more fear. His own blood pounded and that was all he could hear now, the pumping of his own veins.

Legolas was in a defensive crouch again and Elrohir knew he had him. He feinted and as the other Elf rose and met him head on, he pulled out at the last moment and swung his sword round in a flashing, slicing arc and met the air. He felt a stinging cut along his ribs and knew that he could have been hurt more deeply had the other Elf chosen.

Legolas had fallen back. He stood still, arms by his side and looking suddenly vulnerable and Elrohir felt the lust surge through him and fill him. He felt the burgeoning of desire and wanted to humble his enemy, to punish him for everything. He wanted the Elf to be writhing and struggling beneath him, to beg him, he wanted Legolas to submit to him.

He plunged forward and thrust, and felt a stinging blow on his head as the Woodelf passed him. He whirled without pausing and parried the following blow, swinging out and using all his strength to push past the light knives and reach and thrust into flesh.

A gasp as bright blood flooded over the thin white shirt and one knife dropped from nerveless fingers, clattered on the grey stones. Legolas sank to his knees. Along the quay, closer now, a cry and shouting.

Elrohir was oblivious. He strode forward, seeing the blood, soaking the white linen of his opponent. He relentlessly wielded his blade, the remaining single knife no match for his broadsword, ready for the final humbling blow when his legs were abruptly swept from under him and he landed heavily. Instantly another body pinned him.

He looked up at the strong, beautiful face, teeth bared and long hair swirling around them both. The thin edge of the remaining knife was at his throat. He reached up and clouted the pommel of his sword on the side of his enemy's head and the Mirkwood Elf lurched sideways. Elrohir pushed and struck again, this time succeeding in toppling him, and then he rolled, loosing his hold on his sword and grappling for the other's knife. He banged the other's hand hard once, twice, thrice, against a stone until his fingers opened in pain and the long silver knife flew from his grasp. He pulled his fist back and punched his enemy as hard as he could.

Blood flew up and spattered over his own grey tunic and then he felt a corresponding thwack in the side of his face and for a moment he could hear nothing, like he was underwater.

He shook his head but felt himself rolled over and kicked hard in the gut. He scrambled away but another kick followed and then his head was grabbed and he struggled. He felt the heavy body of another straddle him and felt the answering lust surge in his own, the throbbing pain and desire mingled, and then he was held still. He was shaken and focused on the face above him. Long, long winter pale hair grazed his face, the scent of meadow-grass and moss and woods, and then blood. Sea-green eyes, so green they seemed to have absorbed all the colour of the sea, held his, held him and would not release him. He glared back and at the edge of his awareness he heard it, the Song. He felt the spike of desire, the bulging lust, and then squeezed his eyes shut. He would not listen.

Somewhere above them both he heard a voice. 'This is finished.' And then other voices broke in, hands lifting him, anger and argument somewhere through the haze that began to clear.

Someone was pushing at his chest and he grabbed the hand, batted it away irritably. Then his brother's cool presence seeped into his awareness. Soothing. Calming. He leaned forward, coughing. Spat out blood from a cut lip he had not even felt. Winced at the stinging cut on his arm and gingerly touched the place where his ribs had cracked.

'…see you both when you are cleaned up.' An angry voice pierced his thoughts and he looked away.

Aragorn.

'….making a fool of yourselves in front of your comrades. No better than squabbling children or dogs fighting, brawling in the dirt….'

He let the words wash over him and sought the place in his mind that was still and calm. He wondered briefly how it had all ended and where Legolas was, whether he had inflicted as much damage on the other Elf as he suffered himself.

He glanced up. Legolas was standing stiff and proud before Aragorn, his head turned slightly away and his eyes were not focused on the Man. He did not look in the least repentant and his body seemed to quiver still. He said something low in his own Sylvan dialect that Elrohir could not catch, his ears still ringing from the blow to the side of his head. Aragorn said something back and Legolas replied stiffly in Sindarin this time. Then he turned and walked quickly away.

xxxooo oooxx

Elladan had been shocked when he was summoned by the chorus of shouts, and Baelderon shouting to him that Halbarad needed help. He had leapt up, thinking they were under attack the way the Ranger had barged past both Gimli and Haldaron. Elladan had sword in hand by the time he was on his feet.

Baelderon words had filled Elladan with horror and both he and Aragorn had glanced at each other briefly before running after the Man. He was aware of the Dwarf following after them.

He had pushed his way through the crowd on the riverbank and gasped when he saw Elrohir and Legolas at the end of the quay, struggling and blades drawn. He had overtaken Aragorn running along the quay and arrived to find Elrohir astride Legolas, hitting his hand against a rock to release the knife from his grip. Believing that the Mirkwood Elf had lost himself and attacked Elrohir, Elladan had grabbed Legolas' hand himself just as the knife flew from his fingers. It was when Elrohir had drawn his own fist back and smashed Legolas in the face that he realised the truth and then he had tried to pull them apart. Aware also of Gimli's strong arms pulling Elrohir off Legolas, and then Aragorn had grabbed Legolas who easily shrugged off the Man and had kicked Elrohir in the stomach, just hard enough to wind him. Then Legolas had thrown himself on top of Elrohir and Elladan had struggled to push him away, Aragorn on his back and struggling to lock his arms.

Legolas had merely held Elrohir's head in his hands though and there seemed almost a stillness, he had stared into his brother's eyes and whispered something Elladan could not hear before he and Aragorn succeeded in dragging Legolas off Elrohir and he himself had pushed his brother back down.

Now, the fight was over. Elladan looked down at himself. His grey tunic was covered in dust and blood from both Legolas and Elrohir. He had a slightly swollen lip where one of them had caught him in the flurry of fists and punches. Aragorn too had a swollen eye where someone had caught him. They looked at each other wryly.

'This has to stop.' Aragorn said quietly. 'Why is he like this? I do not understand.'

Elladan could find no answer. He went instead to find hot water and bandages to dress his brother's wounds and to talk some sense into him. He felt the presence of the Dark One in all this.

TBC


	5. Helcaraxë

Chapter 5: 'Helcaraxe'

Elladan could see that Aragorn was furious. He was disturbed himself by the dreadful events. He was only too aware of the dull ache in his jaw where his brother had punched him and in his ribs where Legolas had kicked out at him. Ai, he should have left the pair of them to battle it out had they not been armed. And now he had a furious Aragorn. Elladan sighed and stretched out his long legs where he sat against the crumbled stone of the town walls, and wondered what he had done to deserve all this aggravation. He glanced over towards the Dwarf who bristled like an angry badger.

Aragorn's eyes glittered and he glared first at the Dwarf and then at Elladan himself.

'Keep them away from each other.' Aragorn's voice was clipped. 'How can we fight the enemy when we turn against ourselves?' He swept his cloak behind him in an irritated gesture and tugged his gloves on.

Gimli was just as furious. He stood in front of Aragorn with feet planted firmly, arms crossed. Aragorn pulled up short and stared down at the angry Dwarf. 'What is it?' he demanded impatiently.

'Legolas says he is leaving.'

Elladan shook his head slowly and looked away. He had hoped it would not come to this. Absently he pulled his silver knife from its sheath and twirled it between his fingers. He had always found it soothing. And right now, he thought, they all needed soothing. 'Perhaps it is best,' he wondered aloud but that was not what he felt. He had not forgotten the look on Legolas' face when he overheard their argument.

Gimli glared at him. 'It is your brother should leave, not Legolas,' he demanded, stabbing his finger at Elladan. 'Legolas has done nothing. Halbarad said that your brother attacked him! And Elrohir has goaded and glared and muttered and made Legolas thoroughly uncomfortable.'

Elladan looked up at the Dwarf, chestnut hair and beard bristling, almost crackling with fire and energy.

'Besides, we were here first and you have only just joined the quest.' Gimli turned to Aragorn defiantly. 'Legolas is one of us.'

Elladan took a moment to realise what the Dwarf meant. He pulled a wry smile and twirled his knife, silver-black-silver-black.

Aragorn paused and looked Gimli in the eye. A moment passed and then Aragorn sighed. 'No one is going anywhere. Here we are all allies and have one enemy.' Aragorn's voice was heavy with fatigue and sorrow. 'I do not wish to ride to battle without my brothers, or without my friends.'

Elladan stared at the blade that flashed between his fingers. 'I will speak to my brother if you will speak to Legolas.' He glanced at Gimli and caught the deep look in those brown eyes and for a moment, he felt the song of the Dwarf. It brushed his mind lightly, a sensation of the deep fires of earth, and then it was gone. He smiled. 'I will make sure he understands,' he said firmly.

Gimli nodded and let his arms fall to his sides.

He turned to leave but Aragorn caught his arm and leaned down to him. 'I do not want him to leave. But I want no more of this either. Tell him, Gimli.'

Gimli gave the Man a stare and Elladan sighed. It was all going wrong so soon. He steeled himself to go and find Elrohir, but he did not relish the thought. Elrohir would be in his darkest mood now, full of guilt and recrimination. He would own his fault, his guilt, but then steep himself in anger over their mother& it always came back to that. Elladan sighed. He wished his brother could find peace. But he fought and fought and fought it- any intimacy, any love, and there were those who had wished to help him find peace but he ran from them if they became too close& like he was afraid. Elladan paused and stared at the silver knife he held lightly between his fingers. Like he was afraid... but what could he fear?

xoxoxo

Gimli found Legolas with Arod and the other horses which were tied beneath a wide spreading oak tree in the square of the deserted town. Legolas' blood-soaked shirt had been thrown down on the dusty ground and the Elf had simply pulled his Lorien cloak over his shoulders to hide the wound. He was brushing Arod's coat hard, across the neck, down the shoulders and withers. Arod snorted restlessly when the Dwarf came too near but Legolas ignored him, his jaw set in a stubborn line that Gimli recognised well and meant that it did not matter what anyone said now, he would do as he pleased.

Gimli stood and watched, saying nothing. He stood calmly, simply watching. He was a figure of patience, of stone, feet planted firmly on the good earth, his clever, subtle hand on the haft of his axe that was stuck in his wide leather belt, worked with copper and brass. Watching the Elf, he began to see the truth.

'What are you staring at?' Legolas snapped over his shoulder, but he did not stop brushing the horse. 'Your eyes are drilling holes in my back, Gimli, so say what it is you have to say and then leave me be.'

Gimli said nothing at first. Instead he simply reached over and took the wisp from Legolas' grasp. The Elf resisted at first and then let go with a sigh. Taking his hand, Gimli turned it over. The knuckles were bruised and blood had dried on them. A deep sword cut was already scabbing over and dirt was ingrained in his skin. Gimli ran his thumb over the Elf's knuckle and peered up at the cut on his cheek, tutted at the bruising and cuts on his arms and face. He reached up to move back the cloak but Legolas pulled away and turned back to Arod, never meeting the Dwarf's concerned gaze.

'The hurt is also to your pride,' said Gimli softly. He moved to stand in front of the Elf so he had to stop grooming Arod. 'I remember when first we saw the Sons of Elrond. You spoke of them as great warriors amongst your people. Mighty slayers of orcs and goblins in the mountains you called them.' He did not say it, but he remembered the note of admiration the Elf had been unable to keep from his voice.

Legolas shook his head as if to rid himself of thought or emotion. 'Elrohir has held me in contempt since he first saw me.' Legolas rubbed his hand over his chest as if the wound were more than physical, and looked down at his feet, a gesture so vulnerable it almost hurt Gimli to see it.

Gimli looked away and let his hand smooth the horse's glossy coat. 'Things change,' he said quietly. 'This horse would not let me near him when first we met. He was all pride and arrogance I thought. And I did not want to go near him either if you recall& Until I saw him in battle and realised he is a great ally and warrior.' He glanced up at Legolas, who still had his face turned away. 'For a horse that is,' he added.

Legolas lips twitched slightly.

'He thought the same of you when first he met you,' replied Legolas, finally looking the Dwarf in the eye. 'Until he realised what a very good friend you are.'

Gimli pulled out his pipe and seated himself at the roots of the huge oak tree, away from the horse' great hoofs. He rummaged around his pockets and pulled out the pipe weed he had found earlier. 'I suppose if you left, you could take the inland roads at least,' he said innocently. 'It may be that this is a blessing in disguise.'

Legolas paused. Then he said, 'I did not mean I would leave you.'

'Ah. So it's Aragorn you will leave.'

There was a silence.

Gimli smiled in his beard. 'Or were you just saying that?' he asked. 'Because you were a mite peeved.'

'Hmm,' came the noncommittal grunt from the Elf, and he turned back to wisping the horse.

Gimli took his pipe out of his mouth and cleared his throat. 'Was that a 'Yes, I was just saying that'?'

'Yes,' the Elf mumbled.

Gimli grinned. 'I knew that. Hah! No, you do not leave me certainly. We have Orcs to kill and you have to catch up with me.' He became serious again. 'I told you in Edoras,' Gimli nodded sagely and sent a large smoke ring to hover over the Elf's head like a strange blessing. 'To be friends with a dwarf is to never break your word. You gave me your word; not even through death can you break it. If you leave, I leave. And we have given our word to Aragorn to ride with him.' The Dwarf looked shrewdly at the Elf, his earth-brown eyes steady and calm. 'I cannot think the son of Thranduil will let some Noldo drive him off.'

Legolas straightened slowly, his eyes fastened on the wisp and his fingers still. Long winter-grass hair swept over this shoulder and the grey-green Lorien cloak fluttered slightly at the edges.

'No.' He looked towards the Dwarf and a smile teased his lips. 'Not while he has the son of Gloin at his back.'

xoxoxox

Aragorn stood quietly on the crumbling wall of the town. He was still furious with both Legolas and Elrohir. And himself for not sensing the storm that was brewing between them, although in truth he did not expect them to actually draw weapons.

In the empty town square below, he could see Legolas and Gimli. Horses stood quietly by, tails swishing. The Rohan horse that Legolas rode was restless, his hoof stamped several times as if picking up on his rider's anxiety and agitation. When Gimli settled himself on the roots of the great oak and pulled out his pipe, he knew it was safe, that Legolas was calm. Or at least calmer- Aragorn knew better than to believe any Mirkwood Elf would, or even could, recover so quickly from that storm of anger and feelings. And Legolas was no exception; if anything he was even more Silvan than any others Aragorn had met on his travels. And given the pressure they had all been under since they set off from Imladris all that time ago, it was a wonder they had not seen that temper earlier.

He sighed and looked away from them briefly, pulled by the fear for his city. Far away East and North, a great pall of smoke and bruised cloud amassed, covering the sky so that even here, the sun could not penetrate and the day seemed to dim to twilight. Away to the West, the sky seemed torn in two by the ragged edge of the great cloud. He sensed rather than saw the Great River Anduin and its wide expanse of water, its low shores winding, meandering to the Sea. It oppressed his spirits and for a moment, he believed all hope was lost.

Below him, the shadow host, like a sea of mists, shifted and moved like waves, as if they sensed his thoughts. He looked down at them and their restless whispering brushed against his thoughts. He knew what they wanted& blood& revenge. They were restless and wanted to ride, to charge his enemies, to drown them in blood, to crack their bones and break them with the fear that was their weapon .... he could see the Southron and Harad host flee, Men stumbling over themselves to escape the dread, eyes staring in horror, drowning in the black water of the river, scrambling to get to the safety of their ships only to find them ablaze and the timbers creaking, cracking in flames.... 

He opened his eyes sharply. It was becoming more and more difficult to resist them. It was a little like the Ring, how it edged closer and closer and insinuated itself into one's thoughts. This was not how it was going to be however. Even with the weak blood of Isildur, he had resisted the One Ring. He could certainly resist the Oath-breakers. He pulled his cloak about him and squared his shoulders; he forced himself to look into the shadows, to see them. Instantly they stilled. He was the King. You will await my command. He lifted his chin and drove his thought into their midst. You are not yet free. You will do as I command.

He felt he heard a strange murmur but it was only the wind.

He turned slowly, as if against the incoming tide and felt he was wading down from the wall, but once he reached the ground the Shadow Host were no longer in view and he felt free of their desperate grasping urge. He breathed in deeply, and rid himself of the last vestige of their need.

Closing his eyes briefly, he remembered the horror he felt when he and Gimli had arrived and Elladan was already forcing the knife from Legolas' hand. Stunned, Aragorn had watched the long silver blade fly from Legolas' fingers. There was blood on the Elf's hand and for a horrible moment, he thought Legolas had killed Elrohir. But when Elrohir had kicked Legolas he had suddenly understood and thrown himself between them. He could barely remember the next few seconds, so confused and chaotic they were, with fists flying and legs kicking, fingers scratching and scrambling until at last, he had dragged Legolas away and shaken him still until that cold blood-lust left his eyes...

The Elf had stood stony-faced and silent, not looking at him while he scolded him for his loss of temper, for drawing a blade on Elrohir, for disgracing himself and his father. Legolas barely flinched even then and Aragorn had fought an impulse to raise his own hand, for some reaction, some remorse, but there was nothing. It was only now that Aragorn recalled the blood on his white shirt, the torn skin on his cheek, his hand clutched at his ribs and the dirt and blood and bruises already forming. Legolas had drawn his blades first. Halbarad, as witness to the confrontation's beginning, had said. It was a mess. And he could not understand how it had come to this.

Aragorn steeled himself. He had seen the terrible gash across Legolas' chest, the blood-soaked shirt balled up and thrown on the ground. But he was still angry.

Carefully he approached the Dwarf and Elf, watching as they turned to stare.

Legolas straightened and his gaze settled into the impassive stare of Mirkwood Elves.

Aragorn felt a surge of irritation- so that's how it was going to be.

'Have you told him,' he demanded of the Dwarf.

Gimli turned his head away and sighed. 'Not like this, Aragorn. Look at him. He needs your help now not your hard words.'

'Did you tell him?' Aragorn insisted. Legolas eyes still held his, dark slate green. 'I will not have this will not happen again. Do you hear me?' He took a step towards Legolas. Although the Elf's face was pale, his eyes burned. Aragorn glared back and said, 'You will not fail me in this.'

Legolas flinched. A flash of hurt flickered briefly in his eyes to be replaced by a smouldering fury. 'As I failed your trust before you mean?' he hurled back.

Aragorn stared at him, unable to speak for a moment. 'At the Council of Elrond you told me my folk had failed their trust!' the Elf spat, 'My folk died trying to keep their trust!'**

Aragorn did not relent. He could not forget the sight of his friend and his brother. Sword and knife flashing. The dust spattered with their blood. Clashing blade on elven blade. Stories of the kinslaying had flooded his mind in that moment and his horror was so great he had frozen.

'You drew your weapon first,' he accused. He stepped closer to the Elf, so close now he could feel his warmth, and the breath on his skin.

'He drew first blood,' Legolas said coldly.

'You drew a blade on my brother.' Aragorn's voice was like steel itself, hard, cold, bitter. 'He was unarmed and you drew your knife.'

'That's not what happened, Aragorn! ' began the Dwarf angrily. 'Elrohir .... '

'He drew first blood,' the Elf repeated stubbornly, his eyes like glass, his generous mouth a hard line.

'You are not listening to me, Thranduillion.' Aragorn stood close now, chest to chest and held the gaze of his friend. 'I am telling you, it ends now.'

'Then tell your brother, Aragorn!' Gimli tried again, 'because he drew first blood when he struck Legolas. He.... '

'Enough!' shouted Aragorn, turning to glare at them both. He felt their friendship tremble under the strain of this unbearable tension.

Dwarf, Man and Elf stared at each other in a moment of brittle understanding.

Then Aragorn slowly reached out to Legolas' shoulder. 'Enough,' he said more softly. 'It ends now.'

He looked up into the Elf's dark eyes, gleaming like mercury in the strange half-light. Aragorn stared for a moment and then saw the bloody wound half-hidden beneath the cloak. He pushed aside the green-grey material and his fingers brushed the bloody gash in the Elf's chest. Legolas flinched slightly but he did not pull back. Aragorn took his wrists in his own hands and turned them over. He winced at the swollen knuckles and the cuts on the Elf's hands that could only have come from his brother's blade. 'No more, Legolas. Please. For my sake.'

'I will not raise a blade to your brother again.' He said so quietly only Aragorn could hear.' I swear this because of my love for you. But tell him not to test me. I would not break my word.'

Aragorn nodded. It would have to be enough.

xoxoxo

Elladan could sense his twin's disquiet and misery and found him easily, standing on the high wall of the ruined town, looking west. He did not turn or speak but simply stared into the darkness. Clouds scudded across the sky, torn and ragged.

Elladan felt his twin's misery, like a great deep chasm that swallowed all light, all hope, all joy. He said nothing but went to his brother and stood with him in his silence.

A terrible heaviness settled over them both but Elladan did not shrink from it, for it was ever thus. After the raging storm that drove Elrohir in his fury and revenge, there was always this terrible heavy brooding emptiness; this chasm of despair that seemed to pull everything into it. For Elrohir there was only existence in one of those two states, either the furious storm or the pit of despair.

Elladan let his gentle calm reach out, a mist of healing, a soft light that disappeared into the emptiness of Elrohir's despair. He let his brother gradually, gently come back to himself.

'You cannot continue like this,' said Elladan eventually. He gazed across the river towards the west. 'You cannot change the past. She has gone, she left us long ago. But she will be waiting for us when we leave these shores.'

He waited for a moment, waited for the rage to dissipate and the grief to come. It was always like this; after the killing rage came the storm of guilt and then the frozen waste of his grief, suppressed, hardened, frosted until it became as cold and implacable as the Helcaraxe.

Elladan sighed and shifted slightly. It was strange though, this time, for the usual killing rage was always directed against the Enemy and their errantry was ever thus. But ever since they had joined Aragorn, it had been different. The burning focus on Legolas was strange; the icy calm of his brother in the other elf's presence had never been more than superficial and the fire of rage had smouldered so near the surface it had cracked and all the molten hate poured forth.

He heard a strangled sound. Half snort, half sob, and he turned to look at his brother. Elrohir's head was bent and he looked down, eyes tightly shut and the long raven black hair hung over his face. His hand clutched at his chest as if it were he who had been wounded there.

'I cannot bear it. I cannot bear it any longer! You did not see... '

Elladan felt his own heart constrict and he reached out and pulled his brother into his embrace, and comforted him as he always did. He could hear the words, muffled against his own chest, stumble from Elrohir and he pulled back a little to listen.

'... cannot bear to see him - he reminds me of her - of when I found her.'

Elladan paused, shocked.

'Legolas reminds you of her?' he asked gently, surprised, for there was nothing about the woodland Elf that reminded him of his mother he was all lean muscle and sinew and strength. And so utterly male. 'How?'

'I don't know. It is his hair.. long, pale, silk... like hers. When I see him it makes me think of when I found her. And I cannot bear it!' Another stifled sob and Elladan felt his brave warrior brother begin to pull away. He held him close, tightly, surrounding him with calm and peace.

Elladan paused again, thinking. He felt something beneath his brother's words, something held back, unacknowledged, not quite recognised. He said very gently, almost fearfully, 'What does he make you feel?'

'I want to ... I want to hurt him.'

Elladan did not let his brother go, he did not pull back in shock as he felt. He held him tighter and breathed with him, slowly. He remembered one occasion. He had known that Elrohir sometimes journeyed alone, or in the company of Men who Elladan did not know.

It had been last winter and the trees were bare, black silhouettes against the grey winter sky. He had seen him, a lone rider, cloaked against the winter cold as the black horse picked its way down the Hidden Path into the valley. But the cloaked rider had been hunched over, almost hugging to himself some secret shame. His confusion and dark shame so palpable that Elladan had cried out. And Elrohir, for it was he, had started like some guilty thief. They never spoke of it, for Elrohir had avoided his gaze for a while, and kept to his rooms or trained, hard, battling against any who would train with him, but there was a hunted, feralness about him during those weeks that frightened Elladan.

He was suddenly afraid for his brother, afraid for Legolas and what might have happened had they not stopped them both. His fingers tightened on his brother's arm but he said, very gently, 'You said he reminds you of when you found Naneth. Why do you want to hurt him?'

There was another muffled cry and Elladan felt his brother shaking his head, as if to rid himself of some tortured thought. He could not go on then and Elladan held him tightly, stroking his head like he was a child.

xxxx

It was much later that night, when all others slept, Elrohir stood watch on the edge of the camp. He could not sleep, his blood still hot and furious. He felt the Dead brush against him, like skeins of silk or cobwebs, just catching lightly on him as he passed through them. He was not afraid but his hair stood on end and he knew they watched him hungrily, waiting, wanting life, envying him. Elladan slept deeply, rolled up in his blanket, back to the fire and the sheen of his black hair reflected the firelight.

On the other side of the camp, as far away as he could be, he knew the Mirkwood Elf lay. He closed his eyes and flared his nostrils - he could almost sense him, smell him, remembered the scent of hay and grass and moss, the feel of the Elf beneath him& his strong, lean body struggling against his own hard sex, fighting, straining against him. Elrohir shook his head, trying to rid himself of those images, but instead he found his own hand drifting down and caressing himself intimately. He heard a groan and realised it was from his own lips, that his flesh was hot and hard and bulging with need. 

He wanted to stride over to where Legolas lay and shove him awake, to wrestle him for dominance and to tear his clothes. He imagined how Legolas would fight and struggle, how his muscles would slide under the warm skin, his eyes furious and outraged as Elrohir would straddled him and force his hands over his head, how he would try to jerk his head away as Elrohir leaned down to press his tongue against that generous mouth, to force his tongue into Legolas' mouth. He stroked himself urgently, his fist closed around his own flesh, seeing in his mind now that he might force Legolas onto his stomach and tear the clothes from his back, his hips. The long sweep of pale hair, like winter grass, he would catch up in his hand and pull back hard, dragging his head up and crushing his mouth once more..then he would plunge himself into the struggling body beneath him, Legolas bucking and kicking and writhing beneath him while he plunged in again and again, his bulging, bursting cock shoving into that body fighting him, pushing him away, wrestling for dominance while he, he Elrohir, forced submission, forced him to take him, shoved into him hard and fast and.. until.. until...he gasped. 

Elrohir felt the burst of his desire spurt into his hand and he shuddered in ecstasy and disgust. He retched at the smell. He felt sickened by his perversion, by his imagined act of rape, by everything that had happened ... this what what he had seen the orcs do. This was what he had imagined...he was worse than any orc.

TBC

* ROTK

Helcaraxe- the frozen wastes crossed by the Noldor in the Silmarillion

** In the FOTR, the Council of Elrond, Aragorn is angry at Legolas' news that Smeagol has escaped. He says that the folk of Thranduil had failed in their trust.


	6. White Wings

Chapter 6: White Wings

'Thus we crossed over Gilrain, driving the allies of Mordor in rout before us; and then we rested a while. But soon Aragorn arose, saying: "Lo! already Minas Tirith is assailed. I fear that it will fall ere we come to its aid." So we mounted again before the night had passed and went on with all the speed our horses could endure over the plains of Lebennin.'

Legolas, The Last Debate, ROTK

x

Aragorn waited restlessly for Halbarad to give his order to ride, and the last man was not mounted before he dug his heels into his horse's sides and charged ahead. Behind him, the Shadow Host surged silently forwards, edging him on, urging him to ride faster and faster until he streamed ahead, his horse blowing and snorting with the effort. Their litany crept upon him, gnawed at the edges of his mind…We have forgotten the beat of blood in our veins … the pulse of flesh…

The Grey Company rode in silence. Hard. Aragorn barely spoke to any of them, apart from quick terse orders and a driving need to ride fast and furiously across the plains to Pelargir. The quiet Dúnedain seemed even more subdued, focused as they neared their destiny. Dust rose up in clouds beneath their pounding hooves across the plains of Lebennin, and merged with the shadows and drifts of spectral banners lifting gently in a barely felt wind.

…We have lived in darkness, in utter silence, stillness. Forgotten the throb of blood, the feel of flesh, the snap of sinew, hunger and thirst… Steel rusts, crumbles, light fades, darkness only…

The Dead followed, barely restrained, and the edge of their lust for vengeance and release sheared his thoughts.

'Ahead. Look.' Elladan called across to Aragorn and raised his hand, pointing to a distant line. There was a whine of an arrow. Aragorn glanced towards Legolas who peered after the arrow he had just released and was already reaching for a second. The Rohan horse did not falter in its stride and the Elf released the second arrow to shoot away into the grey distance. Aragorn could not even see his targets.

Aragorn glanced across at Elladan who rode beside him, sable cloak swept out behind him and his dark hair streamed in the wind. Elladan stared ahead, intent on some distant point on the horizon, his great black warhorse charged ahead tirelessly, and shook his long black mane, champing at the silver bit in his mouth.

He was even more aware of his other brother who rode at his right. After a terse and emotional exchange with Elladan, Aragorn had acquiesced to his brother's plea and not confronted Elrohir. But the words hung unsaid between them and Elrohir's deep eyes avoided his whenever he looked his way.

Another arrow flew unerringly over the distance beneath the darkened skies and something ahead, a distant blur, fell. Aragorn saw Legolas at the edges of the Company, Gimli clung to him loyally, but the Elf stared intently ahead. He had a cut beneath his eye and Aragorn tried not notice that the bruise on his cheekbone matched the ring his brother wore on his forefinger. It was Gimli who looked Aragorn's way and smiled reassuringly. His beard was swept back in the wind and Aragorn wondered briefly what Gimli would look like without a beard.

Aragorn's horse suddenly shied and he saw the dead body of a Man, bloody cutlass in his outstretched hand, a green fletched arrow sticking out of his chest. Then he passed another and as Legolas passed, he stooped and wrenched the arrows from the bodies with scarcely a glance.

Whispers again at the edges of Aragorn's mind and the Shadow Host seemed to surge around them once more, like a grey tide. He focused again, for he had realised that if his attention wandered in the least, they would catch hold of him and take him where they would… it was hard to resist them for their purpose was his, but they would have ridden him like a hag until he dropped and he had mortal men to lead also. He reined them in, held them back, hard, strongly forcing them to obey him. Faster, faster, they muttered and whispered and it seemed the horses could hear them for their hooves flew over the plains as if winged. Not for us the dawn, not for us the new day…the voices whispered and merged and drifted… we know only the earth, beneath the earth, the darkness and twilight…

Aragorn looked up briefly, feeling their pain and delight in the huge open sky, the long grass and the distant plains, the jingle of the bit and clang of stirrup for these shadows were kin to the Men of Rohan. I have needed to feel the wind rushing past me, to hear the drumming of horses galloping and the ring of steel and stirrup, to see the high cloud and huge empty skies…

Aragorn felt Roheryn's pace quicken and the Grey Company seemed to gallop even faster, the shadows at their heels. He listened although he resisted their insistent call.

There was a slight cry to his far left, from the edges of the company where Legolas and Gimli rode. He looked along the line of Men and saw the Dwarf pulling at Legolas' arm. The Elf had closed his eyes and was leaning slightly to the side, into the wind as if listening. Aragorn wondered if he too, could hear the strange lament of the Dead. Almost he asked but there was still a strained tension between them that he could not quite break yet. Elladan seemed distant as well and his horse suddenly veered towards Legolas when he seemed to awaken and come back to himself.

X

Elladan too was aware of Legolas, although he would look at neither Elladan himself, nor his twin. Gimli stuck like a burr to the Elf and glowered furiously at anyone who dared look in their direction. Elladan felt a strange flush of disappointment for he had enjoyed the company of both the Elf and Dwarf and had looked forward to knowing them better.

It was the sudden breeze that lifted a lock of bright gold hair and caught in his own that drew his attention. It ran its siren fingers across his skin and the sounds nudged the edge of his thoughts… the call of the Sea. It lingered briefly and then was gone. But Elladan saw Legolas lean into the wind, eyes closed, lips parted, and for a moment he was utterly lost. When the breeze had died, his eyelids fluttered open and he looked about him as if he had missed something, but it was gone. Elladan knew Legolas did not know what it was he heard, did not know his heart was unprotected and vulnerable to the call of the Sea. Elladan remembered Galadriel's warning and thought then he understood the choice she had given the Mirkwood Elf. And he grieved. For he dared not leave Elrohir untended, and he dared not show Legolas favour for fear of his brother's wrath. He did not fear his brother. But he feared that he might lose him completely to the darkness in his soul.

X

It was dark then, grey wastes in the blackness before them. Over the wide land, trampling unheeded the grass and flowers, they hunted their foes through a night and a day until they came at last at the bitter end to the Great River at last.*

Even from a distance, they could hear the ponderous din of war; the shouting, the ring of steel upon steel, the screaming. They heard the roar of flames and Aragorn felt the press of the Shadow Host around them. They rushed forward at the sound of War, their murmuring like the wind in the grass but he held them back. Suddenly they crested the hill and the battle was spread out below.

The Great River Anduin gleamed black-silver, like mercury below them. Its wide expanse of water seemed endless, great enough to be mistaken for the Sea itself. Upon it, a great war fleet rode the waves, fifty or so great black ships and countless smaller vessels. Black sails furled and from the sides of each ship there came a burst of fire.

Aragorn stared.

He heard the Dwarf's muttered gasp, 'Orthanc fire. How…?' and heard Legolas swear under his breath.

'Saruman.' Gimli spat. 'His reach is long indeed.' He grasped his axe tightly, 'We should have killed him when we had the chance.'

Some of the smaller vessels were on fire and small black dots leaped from the boats into the Anduin. But there was no time to stop and wonder for all along the banks of the river, along the stone jetties and in the town, flames burst and flared, and small knots of black shapes struggled – Men and Orcs, Corsairs, Haradrim and the good Men of Gondor fought. Those they had vanquished at Linhir had galloped or sailed ahead to escape the King of the Dead, and now they shouted alarm to their warriors below and pointed away, up the hills to where Aragorn had halted and held in check the Shadow Host.

There was almost a pause in the fighting as the Men and Orcs below looked up at the ridge where the vanquished attackers of Linhir pointed. The wind tugged on the great banner that Halbarad held and the White Tree unfurled and gleamed with a light that did not come from sun or moon or stars. But the Men and Orcs below cried out in terror and wonder.

Aragorn was aware of the whispering in his mind, of the steadily growing roar that was the battle cry of the Shadow Host. He breathed in deeply and fought with them to hold them back until he was ready- he wanted to wait until they were almost upon their foes and then release the great tidal flood of terror they brought with them. He held Roheryn back and the great horse pranced and threw up his head, a thunderous whinny sounded and the horse's body shivered in anticipation. Aragorn felt the answer in his own blood and bone, thrumming with the prospect of battle. Now was his time. Now was his hour. The Heir of Isildur and Elendil had come forth to slay the foes of Gondor and to avenge the death of Boromir.

In a great voice he called, 'Now come! By the Black Stone I call you!' *

And suddenly the Shadow Host came up, the hairs on his neck, his arms and back stood on end and he felt a tingling in his scalp. They pushed at him, pushed him to release them into the battle below. Faint cries and dim horns blew, and then a murmur of countless far voices sounded. It was like the echo of some forgotten battle. Pale swords were drawn, but they needed not the bite of sword for they no longer needed any weapon but fear. None would withstand them.*As they gathered on the hill, a grey shadow beneath the bruised purple clouds, the battle below seemed to pause and Men and Orcs looked up.

Aragorn's eyes widened. He had not realised how deadly, how powerful was the fear the Dead wielded. The whispering in his mind became a roar, it grew, louder and louder until it was like a terrible storm. Then suddenly, he could hold them no longer and he let go. The Shadow Host poured like a great wave over the hills and crashed into the hordes below. Aragorn watched aghast as men turned and fled, seeming to drown in the sea of fear that overcame them, their mouths open, screaming, scrambling desperately to escape. The Shadow Host swept across the water and were upon the ships like wolves so the sailors, in their madness, leaped from the ships, drowning in their desperate scramble. On the shore, men fled the battle, friend and foe alike. Only the Orcs did not flee for they did not fear the Dead.

Aragorn saw some ships sailing gallantly to the rescue of drowning men and recognised the freed ships from Linhir. They had steeled their hearts and although dread filled them, they knew the Shadow Host was under Aragorn's command and would not harm them, for he had marked them as his.

Aragorn's horse stamped and tossed his head restlessly. 'Yes. Then let us join the fray,' he whispered and he raised his hand to his own company and they readied to charge. 'Elendil!' he cried and charged.

Roheryn, his horse, surged forwards, leaping over the fallen and slain, and charged into the thick of it where Orcs wrestled and fought with those men valiant enough to remain. He swept Anduril around and black blood spattered his tunic. And again he rounded hearing the roaring of the wind, the clang of steel, and a screaming that would not stop. He lunged and struck another Orc, and Roheryn turned swiftly, striking out with his own hooves, for he was a battle horse. Aragorn rode onwards, recklessly, driving all before him.

He lost sight of his brothers in the battle, and saw briefly, Legolas firing arrow after arrow, decimating the Orc hordes. He heard Gimli's cry 'Barak Khazad!' and then he was caught up in his own fight. He was at the edges of the river now where the fighting was at it thickest and he dismounted and sent Roheryn off for he was more vulnerable on horseback now than on foot. Men had fled in fear and terror, and Orcs had followed to kill. He was pushed into the back of a huge brute of an Orc which grunted and flung out its arm to ward him off. Aragorn swung his sword and sliced through the arm, the Orc squealed and howled and lashed at him, he felt the serrated edge of its sabre rip his skin. The Orc turned and its eyes glazed as a green-fletched arrow pierced its chest.

Aragorn did not pause but swung at the next one, it stepped back and crouched in a defensive stance that he recognised with a sickening shock as that which he had seen Legolas do countless times. The Orc leered and licked its lips. There was red blood on its mouth. Steel clanged against steel and Aragorn felt its unnatural strength, elven-strong, it forced him back so he kicked his booted foot upwards and it collapsed in agony. Anduril sliced into its wicked heart and he pulled it out, the ruined flesh sucking at the blade like it did not want to let go. He grimaced and leaped over the dead Orc. He caught sight of Elrohir then, his long midnight-black hair swirled around his shoulders and the silver blade flashed in the unnatural half light.

X

Elrohir was deep in slaughter, his blood thrummed and sang with the killing. Beneath him his sable horse plunged and he rode on deeper into the killing field. His heart burst with a terrible delight and glee in the blood that coated his hands, his arms, his sword. He slashed and burned and slashed and killed and killed. The crash of metal on metal, the din of shouting, grunting, swearing, invigorated him. Battle fever overtook him and if the yellow eyes of the Orcs he killed glinted with madness and depravity, it was reflected in his own. He killed with an eye above, below, behind and to the sides- a blow could come from anywhere in the midst of such a battle. He did not care. He did not care. He wanted this. Mindless killing. Rage for his mother. Rage against the abominations. Rage against himself for he could not save her. For they took her. They took her. And he could never rest. Never rest. Never find release. He could smell himself on her thighs. He could see her fear of him. He wanted… to hurt everyone… He wanted to hurt him. He wanted…

From his horse, he caught sight of Legolas then. Orcs seemed drawn like moths to the bright flame of his knives, for all his arrows were gone. The hate gleamed in their eyes more strongly, and they gnashed their teeth and surged forwards and then back as he swung in an arc around them. There was a fierce, bloodcurdling battle cry from the Mirkwood Elf, 'Alagos gwann! Noro pin thoer!' and Elrohir almost stopped at the sight of him; head thrown back, long hair glinting gold, that swept about him. His eyes were hard and glittering in the bloodlust that sang in Elrohir's own blood and bones. And despite all he could not help but admire the beautiful, terrible rage that hurtled Legolas into the Orcs, hacking and killing, slashing and then falling back only to lure them on, enticing them into stupid lunges that ended with their death. The flash of the Elf's blade, coming up black with blood and flashing down again was mesmerising. Legolas whirled and slashed, black blood spurted up in a fountain and coated an Orc's face. There were fewer of them now and they had fallen back, waiting, watching their deadly foe.

Elrohir stared for a moment, the power and strength of that athletic body, the strong muscles that slid and swelled and pulsed, his blades thrusting, piercing flesh and muscle and bone… Then Elrohir urged his black horse forwards, his sword plunged in deeply and he pulled it from the belly of a Southron warrior. The flesh sucked the blade, and the man's eyes glazed and dimmed. He pushed the body away and stuck his sword into the back of an Orc.

He suddenly realised the gang of Orcs that watched Legolas had pressed a little closer. He could no longer see the flash of his blade go down and up, slick with blood. He strained to see the Elf.

Legolas suddenly leapt forwards, turning and stabbing, slashing. Another Orc fell, howling and gibbering, clutching its face. But when Legolas fell back, it was more slowly, as if he was suddenly tired. Or distracted, thought Elrohir. Then distantly, a scent, like silk lying on the breeze, of salt and black rocks shining from the tide… Elrohir himself stopped for the briefest moment as the Song surged around him… He stared as Legolas turned, eyes wide and searching. The wind from the sea stirred his hair.

Legolas suddenly gasped and froze, eyes wide. His hands slowly fell to his sides. His knives dropped to the bloody ground and his head tipped back.

No! Elrohir spurred his charger towards Legolas. Galadriel's warning echoed in his ears.

Legolas had dropped to his knees, long winter grass hair streaming back in the sudden wind up the river from the west, a crimson stain spreading slowly across his chest. Legolas' lips parted and he took a deep, shuddering breath that seemed more like a sob.

No. NO! Elrohir lunged forwards again, his blade clashing against steel, fighting his way through the battle towards the fallen Elf.

And then, quite suddenly Elrohir heard them, the sharp keening on the wind, saw the white wings catch in the brief sunlight that broke through. Elrohir's own heart soared and plummeted at their call and at the touch of cold salt spray on his lips. And he knew then that the Silvan Elf had heard the cry of the gull on the shore.

And as if they knew, the Orcs stilled. They stared hungrily at Legolas and he did not rise. One Uruk raised a curved scimitar already gleaming with blood and stalked towards the kneeling Elf. His sharpened teeth were bared in a demonic grin. He raised the curved blade high and slashed down.

X

Gimli had kept close to Legolas, ever mindful of his distraction during the pell-mell ride to Pelargir, and having to constantly awaken him. Although it was not really wakening him, he had seemed to drift, ever towards the westerly horizon, leaning into the wind it seemed. In fact it was so much so that Gimli had threatened to get off and walk. Legolas had only turned slightly and looked down at him as if barely understanding what he had said. When they had paused at the top of the ridge to look down on the river, Legolas had gasped and sworn under his breath. He had thought the River was perhaps the Sea. Gimli had decided then that he would stick next to the Elf and guard his back. He knew it would be no good trying to keep him out of the battle.

Gimli had seen Legolas pause, seen the startled look in his eyes and knew then the danger to his friend. They had been forced apart by the gang of Orcs intent on Legolas. Now though, the Dwarf raised his Great War axe and gave a mighty cry, ''Barak Khazad!' He barrelled through the wall of Orcs, barging them apart and hurling himself in front of the stricken Elf. His mighty axe clanged against the curved bloody scimitar. He pulled it back and sliced the air in front of him with his mighty axe. The Orc fell back slightly but did not move far, it merely circled and jeered.

The Orc, its face disfigured and contorted, snarled and closed in. It had a dwarvish mail shirt and Gimli bared his teeth at it in hatred, his blood thundering.

'You make a pretty pair,' snarled the Orc. 'We will have both of your skins for…' But an arc of black blood spurted from the place where its head was and Gimli looked up.

A dark elven warrior stared down at him from his huge black horse, prancing and skittering. The warrior did not even blink. One of the sons of Elrond, thought Gimli. In the nick of time, he thought as well, but a dwarf was never going to admit that even to a Half-Elf.

'That one was mine,' he shouted furiously. The warrior showed his teeth in a feral grin.

'Well have that one instead!' he shouted back at Gimli. The Dwarf grunted and swept his axe behind him, taking off a surprised Orc's head.

He thrust his axe out and with both hands on the haft, he swung around. The Orcs fell back but suddenly met with a swifter and bloodier end as the son of Elrond thrust his sword into their tarnished armour and ruined flesh. He struck again and again until the Orcs feared more for their lives than their bloodlust for a fallen Elf.

Gimli did not watch. As soon as the Orcs were dispatched or fled he cast off his round helm and stood before Legolas who had sunk to his knees on the wet and bloody ground. A crimson stain spread across his chest. His green-grey eyes were transfixed on the sky above him and the Dwarf seized him by the shoulders and cradled him.

'Legolas! Legolas! You cannot be hurt! ' His hand came away wet with blood. When he pulled the Elf forwards, he saw a slender arrow shaft sticking out of his back, near the shoulder.

A sudden break in the clouds shot silver through grey and there was a single sound. Gimli looked up. A seagull wheeled and cried on the wind. He stared at Legolas, whose face was turned upwards to the white wings, lips parted and eyes gazed, the flash of white reflected in the Elf's dark eyes. Gimli cried out. It broke his heart.

He shook his head and moaned. 'No. No. It cannot be….she told you… she told us… why did I let you come…' He saw the Elf stare up at the sky, at the treacherous white bird that wheeled and mewed on the wind. There was inexpressible joy in his eyes and Gimli could hardly bear it.

'Legolas! Legolas! Do not look at them, do not listen!' He tried to hold his hands over the Elf's ears to stop him from hearing but he knew it was too late.

Legolas drew a sigh that seemed to well from somewhere deep deep within and he spoke. 'Ah, Gimli... You cannot imagine…' The words came from afar as if the Elf spoke from his sleep.

Gimli gave a wordless cry and pulled Legolas to his chest tightly. He wondered how he could bear the loss.

'Give him to me,' a voice spoke low and close. The great black horse stood near him, its hoof stamped and there was blood on its foreleg. The Elf warrior sat astride the war horse, his raven black hair tangled in the wind, his sable cloak swirled around him and blood, crimson and black, gleamed wetly on his sword. It seemed to sing with blood. His eyes were fierce and sunk in slaughter and Gimli stared at this vision from the First Age.

'Give him to me.' It was a command this time, low and deep and spoke to his bones and blood.

Gimli stared first up at the Elf warrior. The horse tossed its head and the silver bit jangled. Then Gimli looked down at Legolas. The Elf's head was tipped back, his long hair swept around him, the crimson stain spread over his chest. His cheeks were flushed and his breaths came in short shallow gasps, but he seemed unaware, gazing in rapture at the wheeling gulls. The Dwarf's shoulders slumped slightly and he knew that he had no choice. To stay would be to invite death. Legolas needed to be removed from battle and his wound treated. Otherwise he would bleed to death. Gimli was no healer and no fool. He glared up at the elven warrior.

'Tell your brother not to come near him,' growled the Dwarf. The son of Elrond suddenly looked at him. 'You cannot understand the love I bear him,' he said quietly. 'You cannot understand what he has done to earn the trust and devotion of this Khazad. You only need to know that he has. '

Defeated, he gently pulled Legolas upright and held him.

Gimli pushed Legolas towards the waiting arms of the other Elf who leaned down and put his arms beneath Legolas' shoulders, grasping him easily and pulled him onto the great black war horse. Legolas' head rolled back against the broad chest and their long hair tangled, gold and black.

TBC

* ROTK, The Last Debate

Translation:

Alagos gwann! Noro pin thoer! - (Bring the) Storm of the Dead. Flee o abominations.

\-----------------------------------------


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: As always,not mine. Just for fun.

Thanks to those who take the time to review and that has helped me throughout his chapter, which I found quite hard to get right- hope I have. It would be good to know if this works for you.

As always, but more so than usual, thanks to lovely Anarithilien who really helped me sort this one out- it really would not have made sense before she got to it! 

Warnings: AU. m/m. Violent and erotic. Lots and lots of angst.

If you are familiar with the art of the Theban Band (.org and then praxisters - the Lord of the Rings- elves) second picture in- Legolas on his own, transfixed, but f you look hard, there is someone else there too. This is what was in my head when I wrote this if you want to go and look. Their work is very… inspiring! But if you find this sort of thing offensive, don't look.

 

Chapter 7: The darkness within.

Legolas became aware of a sensation of rocking, as if in a cradle or his mother's arms. He felt a warmth envelope him, a pale warmth, like a late Summer evening sun. His shoulder ached, and his fingers felt numb. And he heard a song that wound about his heart. He could not forget… he had not recognised until now… it was the song he had almost heard all this time riding through the Lebennin and to the Anduin. Like a silk scarf on a breeze it lay across his dream. He opened his eyes and saw grey eyes lost in trance, lips parted and long black hair, so black it seemed there were blue lights… he drifted again, feeling the gentle rhythm of the waves as he rocked and felt himself held, cradled in the song's embrace…he drifted again, into sleep where there was no pain….

 

xoxo

He could not say why, but the new captain of the newly christened Sea Song had given the order to pull along the shoreline, and he had taken the spyglass from the previous captain's cabin and even now, he squinted at the shore. He felt an urge, a need to do this. He just knew he had to be right here.

Hope had been ignited in his heart with his newfound freedom, and Nestor, for he it was, had quickly been acclaimed as captain by his new crew. They had set sail for Pelargir as bidden by the Lord Aragorn, hoping to find the bright-haired Elf who had rescued them and to aid him. But the wind had been against them and even with freed men they had not made good time. Already the battle had burned itself out it seemed. But… something indefinable... some strange feeling had made Nestor feel he had to be here… right here, at this moment.

Screwing up his eye, Nestor looked again through the spyglass and gazed along the shoreline. The silver-black water lapped at the pebble beach and amazingly, he could see a sandpiper picking its way through the driftwood. It carried on its daily business as if there was nothing unusual about the storm-laden sky, the ship that burned near the shore, the pounding of war. It just pecked about here and there, digging in and pulling at the mud along the river's edge. He was just about to pull away when he saw them.

A tall black horse stood waiting, knee-deep in the silver-black water, its long tail caught in the tide and floating away behind it. It bore two riders; one with long hair as dark as the river water under the twilight sky. His sword was drawn and flashed silver, gleaming with blood both red and black. And before him he held the Elf with hair the colour of golden coins, the one who had leaped ten feet into the hold without a stumble and in less than a blink of the eye, had picked the locks that they had strained to pick and break for months. But now his strange green eyes were closed and his long golden hair streamed over his shoulder. His tunic was soaked in blood.

Nestor gasped and stared again.

'Quick! Anor! Up here,' he called. Squinting again, he saw the black rider had not moved. He stood still, as if carved, gazing at the ship, at him, as if he were waiting for Nestor.  
'Look! It is our Lord, Legolas!' Nestor called as Anor came running up the short steps to the foredeck.

'Ho there!' Anor cupped his hands round his mouth and called aloud to the riders. 'My lords!'

Nestor was already leaping down the steps to the deck. The big Man grasped the rigging and pulled himself up onto the edge of the small boat they had for going ashore. 'Quick! Lower the rig. The Lord Legolas has been injured! Quickly. Lower the rig.'

Swiftly the small boat was pushed over the side and ropes lowered it until it plashed gently onto the silver black water. Nestor and Anor grabbed the oars and with tremendous pulls they steered the boat to the shore where the horse and its riders waited.

Nestor leaped from the boat into the shallows and began sloshing his way to the horse. He looked up at the rider, whose long black hair caught for a moment on a breeze. The warrior looked down with flint-grey eyes.

Nestor did not flinch. 'We will take him to safety my lord,' he assured the silent rider and reached out to take the injured Elf.

But the rider tightened his grip and he looked fiercely for a long moment at the Elf he held against him, seeming to search his face for something. Almost reluctantly, he slid the Elf from his horse and into Nestor's waiting arms.

'Hold him,' said the dark rider. His voice was low and deep and Nestor never thought to question him. Then he too slid from his horse and his cloak seemed to float lightly on the water, it gleamed silver grey now not black. The warrior was tall, taller even than Nestor and he recognised the warrior then as the other Elf who had released Nestor and his friends. The dark Elf knight spoke softly to the horse which turned away and pushed its way through the water to the shore. It emerged sleek black, wet and nosed about in what little grass there was.

Nestor held the wounded Elf lightly, gently in case he should give him any pain. And he stared down at the still face. The Elf's eyes were closed and he frowned in pain. A squeeze began in Nestor's heart, for he could not bear that the one who had rescued them from their lifetime of slavery or horrible death on the slave ships should himself be in danger. He lifted his heavy, clumsy hand to the Elf's face and stroked a tendril of hair from his cheek. 'I swear to you, my lord, I will do whatever is in my power to help you,' he whispered, but there was blood on his own tunic from where he held Legolas.

A hand fell heavily on Nestor's shoulder and the dark warrior took Legolas from him possessively.

The Men murmured in concern as the strange dark Elf lowered Legolas into the rig. A few strokes of the oars on silver-black water and eager willing hands were there to help get Legolas onto the ship. Anor gasped in horror at the slender arrow that pierced the Elf's shoulder. He touched Nestor's tunic where there was blood.

The dark rider was barely courteous. He ignored them all and their concerned questions and carried Legolas below deck. He shoved open first one door and then peered inside, then another until he found what had been the ship healer's cabin.

He placed Legolas carefully down on the only bed on the ship. It took up most of the cabin. The Elf then took the hastily brought ewer of hot water from the red-faced cabin boy, and then pushed the door shut in their faces.

Nestor stood for moment uncertainly until Anor said cheerfully, 'We want him to do whatever he needs for our friend. Let him get on with it. He is an Elf too by the look and none of us know what to do.'

They looked at each other and then as one, pressed themselves against the wooden door, listening.

They heard movement, the sound of doors being opened and shut- the small cabinet, Nestor guessed. Glass clinked and then a clatter of metal. Then soft murmurs and a long silence.

'What is he doing do you think?' Anor asked anxiously.

Nestor shrugged.

They pressed their ears back against the door and Nestor saw the frown of concentration on Anor's face. He smiled to himself for he had grown fond of his companion. They had endured so much together and now here they were, eavesdropping on an Elf warrior, of all things. He did not feel guilty- he was not ready to abandon their bright champion to this other strange Elf for Nestor had felt uneasy at the blank, fierce expression on the dark Elf's face. But they could not in truth stay here forever, pressed against the door. Nestor admitted to himself he would not wish to face the dark Elf's wrath should he find them, so instead he seated himself comfortably on the floor outside the cabin, leaning against the thin partition ready to spring to his saviour's rescue should he so much as cry out. Anor looked at him for a moment and then smiled.

'I will bring you a mug of that good wine the corsairs had, and we can take turns,' he said. Nestor nodded and settled himself as he crossed his arms over his broad chest.

xoxox

 

Elrohir looked at the Mirkwood Elf laid out before him. His pale gold hair was tousled and mussed, spread around him. Lips parted and cheeks flushed. He lay on one side so the arrow did not press against him. His eyes were now open but unfocused, seeing something that was not before him… gulls rising on the breeze perhaps? Waves lapping at the hull of a grey ship…?

Elrohir took a breath and looked about him. He had chosen the ship's healer's cabin. It was fastidiously neat and clean. He had been relieved to find glass bottles of gold, crimson and emerald green standing in a row; distillations of athelas, uilos and sere-vanda, which would make Legolas sleep. Elrohir drifted over to the row of bottles and opened a small cabinet. More glass bottles were clustered within, and scissors, scalpels, a variety of sharp gleaming steel instruments. These belonged to a man who knew his work.

He leaned down and peered into the cabinet once more, staring at the labels on the bottles. The script was Haradrim and Elrohir could not decipher it so he carefully pulled one out, rich amber liquid swirled in the blown glass bottle. He lifted the stopper and sniffed the potion within. He nodded to himself. Ortire. Good. He placed the bottle on top of the cabinet with the first three that were already there. He spread out three scalpels, and needles and suture. He laid a wad of linen nearby and then he turned back to Legolas. 

The big Man they had freed and who had come to his aid, had thoughtfully left an oil lamp, and it rested on a small shelf, casting a warm yellow light around the small cabin.

The Elf lay still on his side and the slender shaft protruded from the back of his shoulder at an awkward angle, already broken off as far as Elrohir dared. But it was the blood that spread slowly over the front of his tunic that arrested Elrohir and frightened him.

Elrohir gently took hold of the end of the now jagged shaft and tested its weight and angle. He prised open the tear in the fabric, to better see the edges of the wound, swollen and red. He pressed his finger lightly around the flesh and the skin, the blood, the shaft of the arrow. No splinters. No poison. A clean wound. But he had seen similar and the arrow head might be serrated or barbed. He would need help to draw the arrow, someone to hold Legolas still.

Satisfied that he knew the extent of this first injury, he unbuckled Legolas' belt and began to pull the tunic gently open. He needed to see the second injury, on his chest. Elrond's son slid the moss-suede tunic first from one shoulder and then, holding the Elf gently against his chest, he slid the tunic over the broken arrow shaft until it fell around Legolas' waist. Quickly he pulled it away and threw it onto the floor. Holding the wounded archer, he registered in some other part of his mind the hard muscles of that lean body, the colourful swirls and abstracts painted on his shoulder and that trailed over his chest. With his knife he cut away at the blood soaked linen shirt and began to peel it from Legolas' skin. It was this blood that oozed slowly, spreading over the Elf's chest that worried him.

As he peeled away the bloody fabric, he saw with a shock that the blood was not from the arrow - it was an older wound and had been dressed. He recognised Aragorn's careful tiny stitches. This was the wound Elrohir himself had inflicted. He stood back and stared. It had torn open and the long thin scar now oozed a rich red blood. He let out a small cry and grabbed a wad of linen.

Even now some part of him stood back and watched, absorbed utterly by the red gash oozing blood that dripped steadily, watched the better part of him frantically staunch the wound, pressing a wad of linen against the Elf's chest. He watched as the blood slowed and slowed, the linen turning from white to red. And that other part of him that watched, fascinated, stirred, and a dark lust raised its head like a predator within him.

xoxo

Nestor whittled a piece of wood into a whistle and had just raised it experimentally to his lips when the door burst open and the dark Elf loomed in the doorway. Nestor looked up startled.

'One of you. In here. I will need you to hold him,' the Elf warrior commanded him and at once, Nestor leapt to his feet to obey. The Elf whirled away back into the cabin, and Nestor shouted up through the hold.

He did not wait but quickly followed the Elf into the cabin and stopped.

His bright-haired Elf, Legolas, lay on his side, his long hair swept over his shoulder and bright swirls of colour tattooed on his skin. Nestor was taken aback for he had not imagined that Elves might do as Men. But these were beautiful, elegant swirls and abstracts, delicate lines and patterns he could not understand, and seemed to enhance not obscure the skin.

'Have you had any experience of this?' the dark Elf was asking, and scrubbing his hands with the hot water and soap the cabin boy had left earlier.

Nestor looked curiously around the cabin; he had never been in here before. This had been the healer's cabin for the Corsair pirates, a Haradrim Man, small, neat, quiet. He had been kind to Nestor each time Nestor had been lashed and even once he had stopped it. Above the cabinet was a small mirror and razor. Nestor wondered what had happened to him.

The strange dark Elf nodded toward a crimson bottle sitting on a near table and Nestor guessed he meant to open it. He pulled out the stopper. Immediately a harsh astringent stung his eyes and he squinted at the dark Elf who held his hands over the ewer and indicated he wished Nestor to pour the liquid over his hands. Nestor's eyes stung even more as the crimson liquid spilled over the Elf's hands but it seemed not to bother the Elf at all so Nestor thought he must be an experienced healer as well as warrior. Nestor put the bottle down and wiped his eyes for they streamed like he had been peeling onions.

He could not see what the Elf healer did next but he heard Legolas gasp and cry out. Nestor started but the other Elf placed his hand near Legolas wounded shoulder, and murmured softly to him, turning and replacing the red bottle and selecting the emerald one in its stead. Nestor heard the Elf say quietly 'sere-vanda' and as he poured the emerald liquid onto a pad of white linen, it seemed to glow for a moment. He held it to Legolas' mouth lightly so the Elf breathed in the emerald vapour and he sighed and relaxed and his shoulders dropped. He slept.

The Elf turned to Nestor then and said 'Hold this over his mouth and nose if he starts to wake. It will help him to sleep.' His grey eyes held Nestor's for a moment and then he said in his low rich voice,' Sere-vanda. It is the Path to Rest. It will calm him through the pain that I have to inflict. You will have to hold him still.'

 

The Elf turned away and took a silver scalpel from the cabinet. He tested the edge with his finger and nodded to himself. He indicated again the crimson bottle and this time, Nestor knew what to do. He poured the liquid over the scalpel this time as the Elf held it over the bowl. 'Are you used to this, Captain?'

Nestor was startled at first, unused to hearing himself addressed as Captain, for all his crew called him Nestor still. He looked carefully at the healer before him, his fine tunic black as night but silver thread embroidered a strangely familiar emblem, stars and ships. His hands though, were a warrior's, hardened by riding and fighting. He wore a strange silver ring on his forefinger. A dark gem flashed in the setting.

'Aye. I am a farmer and fisherman.' he answered, still staring. 'I am used to mending cuts and injuries from ploughs, and at sea there are always accidents. I have recently become more used to injuries from swords.' He chanced an impudent grin that was not returned.

'Good.'

The Elf may not have smiled but he had not snarled either, Nestor thought.

'I need you to hold him still. This is going to hurt.'

Nestor nodded and put his hands gently on Legolas' good shoulder.

'Hold his legs. And if you feel him coming round, remember to hold this over his nose and mouth. I do not want to be kicked while I am drawing the arrow. Are you ready?'

Hardly pausing, the Elf inserted the scalpel into the wound and slid it deeply around the arrow head. Legolas stirred and moaned softly. The dark Elf paused and looked at his face briefly before Nestor pressed the pad of linen against the Legolas' nose and mouth and he struggled briefly before sighing and settling once more.

Almost immediately the took another breath and pulled hard, steadily and Legolas thrashed his limbs. Eyes opened wildly and he tried to lash out at Nestor but the Man had the advantage and subdued him. He quickly held the pad over his nose and mouth until he subsided once more.

'Trouble is it doesn't last long,' the healer-warrior muttered. 'I need a stronger distillation.' He looked up. 'One more go. Ready?'

Nestor watched carefully, aware of the leashed power in these Elves. Muscles bunched as the dark Elf pulled and slowly, slowly the arrow head came away, clots of blood clinging to what remained of the shaft. Nestor held the wad close to Legolas face, anxiously watching first the dark Elf draw the arrow, and then the pale Legolas for any sign of distress.

The dark Elf stared at the bloody arrow head for a moment, as if fascinated. The with a cry of disgust he threw it away from him.

He turned to Nestor, and Nestor almost recoiled at the turmoil in his eyes. Disgust and terror and …something else. If he did not know better he would say desire. But that could not be.

 

Legolas seemed to drift in and out of consciousness, his strange eyes pupils wide and dilated more than any Man's would be. Like a cat, thought Nestor. The iris was green, but a strange shifting green- sometimes grey sometimes blue, then green… a thin line of colour around the wide black pupil… he wasn't like the other Elf, whose hands were deft and careful, making precise tiny movements so the stitches could hardly be seen.

Nestor stroked the wheat-pale hair back from Legolas' face and smiled reassuringly at the wounded Elf whose alien eyes had widened and stared at him. 'Yes, it is Nestor, your old friend my lord Legolas. I have come to repay you in a small way your great kindliness.' He patted the Elf's hand kindly, feeling it clench and the hot sweat on his palm.

'Te naegra…' Legolas murmured, 'Gaear-maew...'

'What is he saying?' asked Nestor with concern, his eyes wide and fixed on the Elf's pale face. The dark Elf paused for a moment and then rested his hand against the other's forehead.

'Posto mae,' he whispered and he leaned in close to the other. He seemed to breathe softly over the wounded Elf until Legolas closed his eyes and then he breathed in deeply and settled. He slept.

'Pour some of the gold liquid into this water.' The dark Elf indicated one of the glass bottles on the cabinet. Nestor turned and obeyed instinctively. Lifting the glass stopper he realised how beautiful these blown glass bottles were. The light from the oil lamp shone through the golden liquid and as he began to pour, a fragrance suffused the air. He suddenly felt his heart ease and he thought of home, and meadows full of spring flowers… his wife running to greet him…

Nestor stared for a moment and then dipped a cloth in the water and squeezed it out. Then he stroked the cool cloth over Legolas' face. And realised he too had tears in his eyes.

The dark Elf leaned back and finished stitching the wound. He wiped his face on his sleeve and smiled gently at the big Man with him.

'He is safe now.'

'You brought him to us,' Nestor said simply. He knew he had been called somehow. He had not just chanced to be near the shore, but had heard some strange ancient call in his heart and been where he was needed most. He was glad.

'Yes.' The dark Elf glanced about the small cabin with its creaking wooden timbers and the clean scrubbed floor. 'He needs to be on the water now... It will soothe him to be here and not to be away from it. It will sing to his soul as he desires… And for the moment, that is enough.'

xoxox

 

Elrohir closed the door. Alone now with the Mirkwood Elf, he turned and looked. Legolas' eyes were closed and his face was slightly flushed, but from sleep now, not fever or pain. His lips were parted. Across his chest, a white linen bandage. His strong archer's arms were crossed, one in a sling and the other holding the wounded arm protectively. Elrohir looked at him… curiously he reached a tentative finger and touched his long hair… It was nothing like he expected. Heavier. Not silk, not corn, not as yellow… more like the pale bleached grass that grew amongst the dunes of Belfalas, or the pale gold of wheat. And thicker.

Light from the oil lamp bathed Legolas in its golden glow. Elrohir stared, unaware of his hunger …The lips were not gentle but sensuous and full, and his strong face was more sculpted, not soft… in fact there was nothing soft about this Elf. Lightly Elrohir stroked his finger across the collar-bone and brushed the edge of the wound, down the lean muscled chest. It was an archer's shoulders, arms, chest, nothing soft or weak. Here were the symbols of his house. Elrohir traced them with his finger. And here was his name in runes, Laeglas, and the elegant patterns of oak and ash and beech. In green and gold, the runes on his arms melted into the swirl of colour that was his warrior's history… there the sign of the battles he had fought at Dol Guldur, and there, the dragon to show that he had fought at Erebor. Elrohir's finger gradually slowed until it paused above the dragon… and watched how it swirled onto the shoulder and disappeared. He wondered how far down it went, and then stopped.

He looked again at the parted lips and the warm skin. He lightly touched the sleeping Elf's shoulder, traced the swirl to his nipple and tightened his grip suddenly. The Elf whimpered and arched slightly. Elrohir stared, his finger still tight on the nipple, his gaze stroking from the muscled, lean chest, the swirl of colour. A white scar lined his stomach from an older wound; it was not completely healed. Not yet. Recent, Elrohir mused, and he wondered when it had been taken. Letting himself believe the lie of his intentions, he stroked it with healing energy but the touch became a caress. His eyes traced the light gold down that began at his navel and disappeared below the white linen sheet.

Elrohir took a breath. He rested his hand lightly over the other's navel but considered more…

Legolas murmured something Elrohir did not quite catch but it gave him reason to pause. He had not realised how strong, how beautiful Legolas was. How much he felt the surge of desire and appreciation for him.

A memory flashed into his mind… of Legolas fighting off the Orcs that surrounded him, the thrust and flash of the silver knives, the wild battle cry, the exhilaration he felt in the fight that Elrohir knew in his own blood and bones… And he wondered what it would be like to have this Elf. No quiet caress or gentle touch would be found here but instead something wild, passionate, full of fire and aggression.

Elrohir felt his ache and closed his eyes. His hands ghosted over himself and he thrummed at his own touch, panting he looked again at the Elf spread below him…his own hand moved up and down, stroking his own burgeoning length. He found himself leaning over the Elf, his own mouth open and his desire hard and strong in his own hand.

He leaned in and Legolas' breath was warm on his own lips. It began with only a trace of a kiss, a light stroke of his tongue against the warm mouth. And when he felt the muted, drowsy response he pressed his tongue against those parted lips, and before he knew it, he had pushed his own hard, demanding sex against the warm skin…his fingers pinched and teased the peaked nipples, palms flat against the lean chest and belly, moved lower until he had cupped Legolas in his own hand and squeezed through the suede breeches.   
Then as the other Elf's sex began to bulge, he squeezed harder, painfully and although Legolas's length filled quickly, the Wood Elf whimpered …

Elrohir stared hungrily at the Elf spread before him, flushed cheeks, lips parted, eyelashes dark against his skin, long pale hair mussed and tangled, and the long, lean body …that dark desire that had raised its predatory head earlier now seized Elrohir completely. He suddenly dragged Legolas' hair into his fist and pulled his head back so his throat was exposed and Elrohir pressed his hot mouth against the other Elf's throat, pushed open his lips to wrestle with his tongue. When the Mirkwood Elf seemed to start and struggle, Elrohir blindly groped for the wad of linen and sere-vanda and pushed it against his nose and mouth until he ceased struggling and lapsed back into sleep.

A dreadful memory surged in Elrohir's mind and quickly submerged once more… he pushed it away and instead, his fingers tugged at the laces of his own breeches, eyes fastened on the Mirkwood Elf's closed eyes, his chest rising and falling rhythmically, the swirl of colour and abstract that circled his nipples and then the dragon that curved away over his shoulder and slid down to his hip …Elrohir pushed the Elf's unconscious body with no care for the bandaged arm and shoulder. He rested the Wood Elf on his front and stared at the dragon that slid from his hip to disappear below the waistband of his breeches. Suddenly Elrohir had his knife in his hand and there was the sound of tearing cloth. He tore the fabric away with trembling, frantic hands and gazed. The dragon coiled around his thigh… his thigh… Elrohir traced the pattern, his breath hot and fast. With a groan, he leaned over and covered the Mirkwood Elf's body with his own. The Wood Elf whimpered quietly in the hot darkness and suddenly he stopped. There was a stickiness on his thigh and the smell of his own musk… the smell…

He pulled back, eyes wide and staggered away from the bed. He was sweating. Panting like some Orc. Legolas whimpered again and his body arched slightly. He stepped back again, licked his lips and rubbed his hot hands on his tunic. That quiet whimper in suffocating darkness, lamplight, torchlight spilling onto such bruised flesh…the smell… the smell upon his thighs… her thighs… He felt bile surge through his throat.

When had he stood and swept off the sheet? When had he leaned over the bed in this predatory way? When had he started touching himself? And when had he ripped the clothes from this unconscious Elf and pressed himself, his hard sex, against the vulnerable flesh of this warrior, this Elf he said he despised?

Again. It was happening again. It had happened before. Once. That time he had lost himself utterly. And he had returned home in abject misery and self loathing. He shook his head and leaned over the basin still with a lingering fragrance of athelas. his own reflection trembled on the surface of the water and he pushed himself away with a cry of loathing and fear.

xxox

Translations:  
'Te naegra…Gaear-maew.' - 'It hurts…The song of the gulls.' (I am sure the cases are not correct - but as Legolas is rather dopey he may have got his grammar muddled up - if anyone wants to correct, feel free!)  
'Posto am' - 'Rest now.' (meaning repose rather than stop.)   
\-----------------------------------------

Chapter End Notes: There is some lovely art work for both this and last chapter by Mienpies but for some reason it won't post here. If you are interested, pop over to the Esteliel site, www.esteliel and check it out there or on the LOTR fanfic site.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8: Aftermath

He drifted. Aware of pain, and blurred faces, voices he could not hear...

There had been a moment where the pain had crushed him, a spear of agony pierced his shoulder and he had cried aloud. A hand on his wound and then fingers probing at sore, sensitive flesh. Searing burning pain ripped through him and he was suddenly held tightly, soothing words and hands that were warm and healing stroked him, soothed him. He had opened his eyes and a blurred face swam before him, familiar, distant… a beard, and at first he thought it was Gimli, but it wasn't. The beard was rougher, shorter and darker… the face spoke kindly but he didn't understand… his cry died to a sob. Soft voices, soothing, someone held his hand kindly, stroked a cool cloth over his feverish face and the fragrance of athelas enveloped him…

In the forest, dark trees shaded him and he ran... no, he wasn't running, he was galloping, it was a pony… ah, Gwaloth! Surely she was long gone… but he was galloping, and his father and strong powerful brothers on their great chargers rode with him, laughing loudly, their golden, brown and black hair teased by the wind and… No, it was Yule and the great bonfires were burning in the glades, and there was singing and dancing… he was leaping over one of the bonfires, laughing when he saw his mother put her hand to her mouth briefly as he leaped… ah, surely it could not be… and she stroked his hair back from his face, her hands cool, her scent, fragrance of … what was it? Athelas? No, wait… those were Aragorn's grey eyes… no, not Aragorn… Elrond then?

And then, a scent like silk lying on the breeze, of salt and black rocks shining from the tide… the wind from the Sea stirred his hair. A sudden break in the clouds shot silver through grey and there was a single sound, a sharp keening on the wind, and he saw the white wings catch in the brief sunlight that broke through. His heart soared and plummeted at their call and at the touch of cold salt spray on his lips.

''Te naegra…' Legolas murmured, 'Gaear-maew...'

There was a whisper to rest, to let himself drift now on the Song, to let it take him and he did. Warmth settled over his limbs, and then he slept once more, lulled by the rocking of the waves, the splash of the sea against the grey hull of the ship, and the distant keening of the gulls as they lifted into the breeze and soared...

Later, how much later? He did not know… time blurred...

There was a different sensation… pain nibbled at the edge of his consciousness but there was a sensuous tingling on his skin, feather-light touches. He felt his name traced on his skin. The touch drew his attention, tracing the patterns of runes and protection, lifting him from the darkness and the endlessly lulling waves. Fingers brushed across his chest, his nipples and he pushed into the touch… arched his back although the pain crushed him. His head tipped back and his neck exposed…wetness on his neck and then his mouth… a trace of wetness on his lips, like salt, he'd heard the sea was salt… he closed his eyes again listening to the song of the sea, the cry of gulls, the waves lapping at the shore, and then he felt a hand hold him by the shoulder, warmth spread into his shoulder, down his arm, to his fingers, and around his chest, to his stomach, and then further down. He felt a surge of warmth at his groin and he pressed into it. He felt pressure on his thigh, and he heard a moan… was that him? Through his eyelashes - he could not open his eyes - he saw a ring with a dark gem flashing in the golden light…

He suddenly struggled as pain surged around him. He tried to raise his hands to push off the heavy weight that crushed him, and then rough fingers seized his hair, pulled so his scalp hurt. He struggled against the hot hands, fingers digging into his sore, wounded shoulder, pulling him over, shoving him onto his stomach. He cried aloud again, but he could not raise his hands and was suddenly sinking, sinking… He could not move and sweating hands on him and then a heaviness suffocated him. The hot pain knifed through his shoulder and pierced his nerves. He whimpered and arched away from the pain. There was a sudden, anguished cry from someone else, the weight went from his body and then all was quiet.

He drifted again blessedly unaware….

xxoxoxox

When Elladan entered the cabin he could smell it. He glanced quickly, first to the bed and then at Elrohir, who stood with his back to him, leaning on a small wooden cabinet and breathing hard. The smell of athelas and uilos could not hide the musk that hung in the cabin's close atmosphere.

Appalled, he grabbed his brother's arm and hissed, 'What have you done?'

Elrohir turned abruptly with a fierce gaze, his lips thin and drawn back from his teeth. Elladan almost stepped back from him but it was still his brother, his twin, and he clutched at Elrohir instead, his own grey eyes searching the beloved face made unfamiliar with its savagery.

At that moment, Legolas murmured and stirred. The white linen sheet fell back and the lamplight bathed his half-naked body in golden light. Elladan stared. Runes and swirls and tendrils of gold and green were painted there on his warm skin. But more, Elladan immediately saw that the fabric of his breeches was torn and rucked, pulled down to expose pale flesh. Legolas moaned and rolled onto his back, his hand dropped to his side.

Disturbed beyond thinking, Elladan glanced at his brother… his face was transfixed, his lips parted and eyes fastened on Legolas. Long pale gold hair spread out over the pillow, lean, hard chest, belly. An abstract shape, a dragon? peered over his shoulder, curved at his narrow hip and trailed away below the ripped waistband… Elladan wanted to gaze himself but anger sobered him and he tore his eyes away, pulling the sheet back over the Elf's body to break the spell.

'What have you done?' he whispered again. Elrohir stared at Legolas and Elladan saw the lust, the desire, heavy, predatory. He stared at his twin, barely recognising him and fear made his stomach lurch. 'You are a healer!'

Elrohir pulled his arm away from Elladan. 'What do you mean?' he snarled. 'I did nothing! I healed him! You dare…? You imply…?'

Elladan's blazing accusation hung between them unsaid. He watched his brother lick his lips and look away.

'I did nothing…' he whispered, half to himself. 'I only looked…only touched…' He glanced briefly at Elladan. At the disgust on his twin's face, Elrohir suddenly stopped. Slowly, he looked down at his own hands as if barely recognising they belonged to him. His face crumpled. 'I lie, even to myself! I touched him. I pressed myself against him. I wanted to…' He covered his face with his hands.

Elladan almost stopped breathing. 'Did you…?'

'No! No, I stopped before… I stopped.' Elrohir shook his head as if trying to rid himself of the image, of the thoughts and the terrible urge to hurt. He did not know what drove him to want to hurt this Elf, to hold such rage against him, Legolas had done nothing.

Elladan breathed. He had seen this look before. He had seen the loathing and horror, the self-disgust that would not let Elrohir find release.

'I thought he was like …'Elrohir paused, hardly aware of his brother, eyes distant and glazed, 'but he is not. Nothing like.'

'Like whom?' Elladan had to ask, but he hardly dared to breathe, did not want to know. And if he was honest, later he was glad Elrohir would not answer, but only buried his face in his hands and groaned. It wrung Elladan's heart to see his brother like this, for he loved him but hated what he had become. It had not always been like this. Before their mother had been tormented, Elrohir had been so different...but that had changed them all.

But this still was his brother, his twin. His heart. He reached out a tentative hand and touched his brother's sleeve. 'Leave these thoughts, Elrohir. This will destroy you.' He knew he sounded desperate. 'Put this out of your mind.'

He put his hand on the back of Elrohir's neck and pulled him towards him, nestling his brother's face in the crook of his neck and his heart felt such tenderness he could almost do anything if it would ease his brother's pain. He remembered again that time… Elrohir had returned on his own, his shame hung about him like a pall. And he had hidden from everyone. But Elrohir had helped him bind the wounds, those strange tears and scratches in his skin, on his arms and on his chest, like he had been clawed by some wild beast. Elladan squeezed his eyes shut. He could not let this go on. But he did not know what to do either.

He lifted his brother's chin and caught his anguished gaze. Elrohir pulled away, unable to meet his eyes, his mouth almost trembling on the edge of tears. Elladan seized him again and hugged him hard. 'I am here. You are not alone.'

Elrohir murmured in a voice so strangled he barely caught the words. 'I am a monster, worse than an Orc. How can you bear me?'

And Elladan wondered at himself, but nothing had happened, he told himself. Elrohir had stopped. He found the words in his mouth and forced them out. 'No... No, you stopped. Before… There is no mark upon him, no…trace of…' BUt he oculd not say more, for he felt bile in his throat then and could barely look at Elrohir's anguished face. But he had not… Elladan could not speak it even to himself and he pushed away the thoughts. He would deal with those later. 'Hush my brother, do not speak it.' Elladan smoothed his hand over his brothers' head, shushing him, he did not want to hear. 'You healed him. And you are still in the bloodlust of battle. You would not have harmed him.' But even as he spoke, he wondered if that were true, wondered what had happened that other time. 'I bear you because I love you. Whatever you do, whatever you have done, I will not let you go.'

He handed Elrohir a clean cloth, without meeting his eyes. 'Here, wash yourself,' Elladan instructed him and turned away, pretending to tidy the bottles and the small basin. The sharp smell of uilos and ortire stung his eyes with tears briefly and when he turned back, Elrohir was rolling down the sleeves of his shirt and shrugging into his black tunic.

He looked at his brother who still would not meet his eyes. 'Go. Find Aragorn and Gimli. Tell them Legolas is here.' He gripped his brother's arm and then said insistently, 'Tell them I am caring for him. Say nothing about you being here.'

Elrohir hung his head but Elladan gently turned so he could see his face. 'We need to find you a way of… of releasing this pain you have, that does no harm to another.'

He was relieved to see a nod from Elrohir. 'We must talk of this further,' he pursued while he had the chance, before Elrohir brought down the shutters and became stone once more.

'You have saved me from my own dishonour,' Elrohir said heavily. 'I will tell you what I can, but I do not understand it all…and there are some things…' he hesitated, 'some things that are too dark for me to bear.'

xxoxoxox

Gimli sighed and leaned on his axe, his muscles sore and cramped now that the fighting had stopped. He glanced down at himself; black gore spattered him from head to toe, mud clung to his boots and all up one side of him where he had slipped on Orc entrails. He grimaced, for he had been the reason said entrails had been spread out on the ground in the first place. He felt the battle fever seep from his blood and then the exhaustion set in. He needed to sleep. Desperately. But all he could see was the image of Legolas, kneeling on the bloody ground, his head tipped back and blood soaking his chest. Anxiety gnawed at his own entrails.

He needed to find Legolas.

Then find Aragorn. Then sleep. Then punch Aragorn. Hard. More than once. And then punch him again.

But he wanted to check they were both safe first.

He looked across the devastated field of battle. Smoke drifted across the plains like a thick fog. Corpses of Men and Orcs were piled or scattered. There were a few dead horses lying like great boulders, unmoving, only tails or manes fluttered slightly in a breeze. The River Anduin lapped at the shoreline, washing grey pebbles up and down in the tide. Beyond, on the river itself, a black ship still burned, orange flames leaping high in the sails and a cross bar fell flaming onto the deck, crashing though the rigging. There seemed to be no one on the ship, but small round shapes bobbed on the oily water. Gimli realised that these were drowning Men, and even though they were Corsairs, he still felt a sense of angry helplessness.

Another ship sailed close by and Gimli could see through the smoke that small boats had been lowered and even now, Men rowed out to the burning ship and pulled their drowning enemies from the black water. He murmured a short prayer of thanks.

There was a shout and Gimli turned to see Aragorn waving and striding towards him.

'Gimli! Well met! You are unharmed?'

Gimli rubbed his hand over his eyes, relief washing over him. Aragorn looked grimy with ash and dust; his sword, still unsheathed, was wet with blood, gory black clots strung from the blade. But he walked easily and his eyes were clear grey. He was flanked by two Rangers, walking swiftly, their grey cloaks billowing.

The Dwarf scowled and nodded. 'Yes. And you?'

'I am well,' Aragorn said distractedly, looking over Gimli's shoulder, searching. 'Where is Legolas?'

Now that he could see Aragorn was unharmed, Gimli could let his anger flood his veins, a red fury.

'Gimli? 'Aragorn asked concerned, this time focusing on Gimli.

'He was injured,' the Dwarf said shortly, glaring at the Man.

'Injured? When? Where is he?' Aragorn grasped Gimli's sleeve and stared at him. Gimli said nothing but he met Aragorn's grey eyes with a hard look of his own. He wanted to let the moment draw out, let him feel the uncertainty, the possibility of loss. But this was his friend too, and there was the same raw fear in Aragorn's eyes that he knew would be in his own.

'An arrow. He was shot just as he heard the gulls.'

Aragorn paled. 'He's been shot? Gulls? What do you mean?'

'Ah!' Gimli roared. 'You stupid man! Gulls. He heard the cry of gulls on the shore.' He saw Aragorn's blank look and was appalled. He grabbed the Man's arm. 'Have you forgotten? Galadriel said that if Legolas heard gulls he would die!'

Aragorn stared in horror, the beginning of realisation dawning. 'No! Of course I have not forgotten! But…' he glanced around them, taking in the grey shore, the heavy overcast sky. 'But we are not by the Sea.'

Gimli clenched his fists and shook his head in fury and frustration. 'You have been here before. Smaug's balls, Aragorn! You have sailed upon this river before all this. Did you forget that gulls come up this far? Did it slip your mind? Would you have played so fast and loose with the lives of your brothers or if it were the lives of your own folk, your Rangers there?' He pointed towards the two Rangers now standing nearby, grey cloaks, swords now sheathed but watching uneasily the exchange between their Chieftain and the Dwarf. He was being unfair, a part of Gimli knew, but his anxiety and guilt made him harsh.

And then, as if to punctuate his words with horrible irony, a gull mewled in the sky above them grey now in the dim light. And a sudden flock of white gulls lifted on the breeze and sailed above them.

Aragorn followed them in their flight, lips parted, aghast. He turned back to Gimli then. 'Tell me he is not dead,' he whispered.

Gimli winced. He could not answer. All that he knew was that he could not bear it if he should lose Legolas. Theirs was a friendship forged in iron and battle. He let his axehead rest on the ground and sighed. Then his hand crept out to Aragorn and he clasped the Man's arm for comfort. 'He was alive when I last saw him. He was taken by Elladan to a place of safety. I hope he will heal him for the arrow was in his back and… and there was so much blood.' Gimli swallowed.

'Elladan?'

'Yes.'

'How did you know it was Elladan?'

Gimli gaped at him. 'Well I…I just assumed that…' He remembered the Elven warrior staring down at him, black gore slick on his tunic, on his sleeve and blood on his sword, the fire burning in his eyes. 'I do not know... he did not say…' And then he realised that he too had been a fool. He felt rage boil in his chest. 'If he has harmed one hair of his head, if he causes one wince of pain, I swear I will kill him!'

'Peace Gimli. We do not know. Let me find them.' Aragorn sounded desperate to Gimli, and the Dwarf clenched his fists again. 'They both are powerful healers. Legolas is in good hands whether he be with Elladan or Elrohir.' Aragorn looked away over the devastated battlefield, searching.

There was a black horse picking its way through the devastation towards them; the light breeze feathered a tendril of raven black hair. One of the sons of Elrond. He lifted a hand in salute. The two Rangers turned to watch him approach and Gimli suddenly realised why they were there - to protect Aragorn.

Gimli strode forwards, beard bristling and swinging his axe.

'Elrohir!' Aragorn called, 'How goes it with you?'

'All is well, Aragorn. Elladan is well. He tends the Mirkwood Elf even as we speak.'

Gimli let out a breath he did not realise he had been holding. 'You mean Legolas,' he said angrily.

'Yes.' The Elf paused and something indefinable flickered across his face. 'Legolas.' He looked down at his own hand that stroked over his horse's glossy black coat. 'You are right. He is injured' continued the son of Elrond, 'but he will heal quickly. The arrow he took was clean, a Haradrim shaft, not Orc.'

He slid from his horse and clasped Aragorn's arm. A smile flashed across his face and for the first time, Gimli saw Elrohir as he was, as he should be, his grey eyes were lit with love for his foster brother and relief that those he loved had survived.

Now that his face was softer, he saw how strong were the sons of Elrond, how striking was the black hair and grey eyes so similar to Elrond's, the fine features like carved stone – not marble or alabaster by any means. It should be granite, thought the Dwarf, but that was not fine enough. He paused and then shook his head at his ridiculousness.

Legolas was recovering, that was what was important. He was alive. And Elladan was caring for him.

'Where is he, good Master Elrohir, that I may tell him he is lucky I am so mellow a Dwarf as to not beat him about his little pointy ears!'

Elrohir turned his gaze to the Dwarf and Gimli was suddenly caught in their inner light- almost silver, argent perhaps… he found himself speculating again, what stone, what rock, what gems…

'He is aboard the ship of some of the freed slaves. They sailed from Linhir to aid us. Fine folk indeed. And Elladan is there.'

Gimli peered out across the river and picked out a black ship with figures scurrying to and fro as one of the small boats he was watching earlier drew alongside. 'It is not only the arrow that caused him injury,' he said and turned his dark gaze towards Elrohir meaningfully. The Elf took a step back at his words, and it seemed to Gimli that he looked guilty.

Gimli stroked his beard thoughtfully. The Elf-lord must think he referred to the fight between he and Legolas, Gimli thought. Recognising an opportunity when it presented itself, he said in the spirit of reconciliation., 'Come now, Master Elrohir. We are all now brothers in blood, in battle. We must put aside our differences and work together to defeat the One Enemy. Legolas will not hold that fight against you.'

'You were both in the wrong,' Aragorn intervened. 'It was not only Elrohir who drew blood.' He stupidly chose to remind Gimli, as if he needed that right now after Aragorn had so carelessly led them right to the mouth of the Anduin and to the Sea where it had been almost a certainty, a certainty, Gimli emphasised in his own head, that there would be gulls.

He turned to Aragorn, feeling the righteous indignation on Legolas' behalf fill him but Elrohir spoke first, in a quiet calm that was not at all how Gimli expected. 'He was more wronged than wrong. I wish now it had not happened. I do not seek to excuse myself.'

Gimli stared, open-mouthed and Aragorn turned to look more closely at his brother but Elrohir did not flinch. He continued, 'You are right, Master Gimli. We must put aside our differences.' Then he added in a low voice, 'I have much to redeem.'

Gimli was not quite ready to forgive Elrohir for all his transgressions against Legolas, but he was never grudging in his manners or his good opinion. And this could mean a healing of the rift between the sons of Elrond and the son of Thranduil. 'Well now, I am glad that someone is taking my advice for a change!' he said. He turned and glared at Aragorn, 'You should listen to me more often, you might yet be King of all Gondor and Arnor and whatever else it is.' Aragorn rolled his eyes but Gimli had already turned back to Elrohir.

'Yes well, I am glad that you are going to mend things with Legolas. He will be pleased with that too I am certain. But that was not what I meant.' Gimli leaned heavily on his battle axe, suddenly weary. 'It was the gulls that did it. They distracted him. It was because of that he let down his guard and so was shot.' Slowly Gimli rubbed his hand over his eyes, 'This smoke stings does it not?' he muttered and then said quietly, 'The Lady foretold his death should he hear the cry of the gulls. Does this mean he could still die?'

Aragorn swallowed and looked away across the bleak battlefield.

Elrohir did not move. He stood quietly, allowing Gimli time to recover. Then he stared across the great Anduin and Gimli followed his gaze to a small ship. 'Galadriel did not foretell his death. She said if thou hearest the cry of the gull on the shore, Thy heart shall then rest in the forest no more.

'His heart will not rest.' Elrohir's voice seemed distant and laden with sorrow and pain. 'It is perilous to stir the cuivëar, the sea-longing, in the heart of an Elf, and for the silvan kindred even more so. The cuivëar.' Gimli thought the Elf's eyes seemed the colour of the grey sea itself then but Elrohir continued, his voice low and resonant. 'He will never rest again, not here, not in Middle Earth, not in the beeches of his home or the gardens of Imladris, nor anywhere else. Only if he heeds the call and takes to the grey ships will he find peace. It is a sundering of kin. He will be torn from all he loves, all those he holds dear. And if he resists, it will become greater and stronger until he either listens and sails, or he is destroyed by the yearning.'

Gimli bowed his head and leaned on his axe. He had already confessed to himself that he could not bear to lose Legolas. It seemed he had already lost.

xxoxox

Elrohir looked at the bowed head of the Dwarf and was stirred with pity. He had committed such crimes, had so much to redeem for his terrible sins. Perhaps he could begin with helping the Dwarf understand. 'It is like the Mazar-kut,' he said softly, and met the astonished Dwarf's deep brown gaze. 'The call in your heart for Êkhezd-dum, where Mahal first delved and the Seven Fathers sleep, awaiting the breaking of the world.' He lifted three fingers of his left hand and then pressed them against the Dwarf's chest, over his heart.* 'The fire in your heart that calls stone to stone is like the song the Elves hear that calls them home to Valinor, across the Sea. Do not despair, my friend, it is a blessing also.'

xoxoxo

Legolas opened his eyes mussily. He was in a small room, wooden walls and floor, polished oak. A fragrance of athelas suffused the air and he breathed in deeply. A sharp pain lanced his shoulder and jangled his nerves. He gasped.

'Shhh. Do not move.' a quiet voice soothed him. He felt a cup pressed against his lips and a trickle of liquid in his mouth. A tang of copper and something sweeter. Sere-vanda… he didn't want it. Didn't want that blanket of sleep to dull his senses, to wrap him about in a fog of warm forgetfulness… He tried to shake his head but it hurt too much.

'This will dull the pain. You will not sleep unless you wish me to give you more.' Again that quiet voice, commanding, intense, kind. It reminded him of something… someone… but it was too much effort to think. So he allowed the liquid to trickle into his mouth and throat. He tried to lift his hand to the cup but it fell back uselessly. A hand supported his head so he could drink. A memory flickered somewhere, of hot hands and a flash of a dark gem. But there was nothing on this cool, gentle hand.

'You are aboard the ship of your old friends, Nestor and Anor,' the voice continued gently. Legolas smiled.

His thoughts became clearer - there had been a battle. There were things he could not bear to lose. 'Gimli?' he asked weakly. 'And Aragorn?'

'They are well. Both survive with less injury than you.'

He could not prevent the sudden overwhelming sensation of relief. He had never really doubted but the Dwarf and Man were dear to him… and the Dwarf … Well, he needed that earth-bound sense and warmth at his back.

His eyes cleared a little and he saw Elrond's face hovered above him. He frowned, confused. 'My lord?' he struggled to sit up but could not and collapsed back onto the bed with a gasp. 'My lord…?'

Elrond smiled benignly and said, 'No. My father is yet in Imladris. I am Elladan.'

Ah… that was it… Elladan. He breathed out. It was becoming clearer.

But a memory drifted… light touches feathering his skin… warmth that permeated his bones and blood thrummed with burgeoning desire. He glanced up again at the fine, strong face, its dark brows and grey eyes that were full of compassion and concern. He became acutely aware of his nakedness, the bandage tight against his nipple, and his chest and stomach naked. He glanced away and pulled at the waistband of his breeches. His fingers found the torn fabric and he paused, wondering how that could have happened. He pulled the edges of the material together self-consciously and met Elladan's eyes.

'Forgive me,' the dark-haired Elf said, his eyes darting to where Legolas struggled uncomfortably beneath the sheet. 'You were so far gone it seemed perhaps there was some other wound.'

Legolas sighed, of course. He was relieved that it was Elladan who had tended him and not his brother. But the softly sensuous touches he remembered flitted across his memory again and he thought about that for a moment. He licked his lips, his throat felt dry and his head had started pounding.

'You will need to drink water.' Elladan seemed to have thought of this already for he lifted a wooden cup and held it to Legolas' lips again.

Legolas pulled away slightly and took the cup, glancing up at Elladan briefly. He was no weakling and he had wanted the sons of Elrond to see him for the warrior he was, not a weak injured Elf who needed tending. It would be different if it were Gimli, or Aragorn here…And he still felt strange, befuddled.

'I can do this,' he said stiffly, and then realised how churlish it was after Elladan had brought him to this place of safety and bound his wounds. He felt ashamed. 'I wish to thank you for what you have done.' He flashed a weak smile at Elladan, who stared for a moment and then tore his eyes away.

Legolas frowned and watched the Elf as he turned away and busied himself at the small cabinet. Richly coloured glass bottles stood in a haphazard row on the cabinet, the lamplight glowing through the emerald, gold and amber liquid. These sons of Elrond were heavier than silvan Elves, Legolas mused. Elladan's shoulders were perhaps broader even than his own archer's frame, his build more Mannish, lean but not in the same way as Legolas was himself. The Peredhel's legs were sturdier but still shapely, and long black hair gleamed in the lamplight, black as a raven's wing. Legolas almost expected to see blue lights in it…he remembered again the light feathering on his skin and touched his fingers softly to his own lips. He wondered what it would be like to sift the long raven hair through his fingers.

xxoxoxo

The ghostly mist drifted, still, silent. Sated. There hung the tattered remnants of banners long forgotten. A glint of sunlight touched pale swords, ghosted over helms from long ago. Now that Aragorn stood before them, the whisperings had ceased. Their insistent demands were replaced by expectation. Like pressure before a storm, Aragorn felt his head throb, like someone was pressing down on him. He dragged his gaze to the spectral host that stood silent, listening waiting. He did not raise his voice, nor cry out to them for he knew he could speak no word and they would hear him.

'Hear now the words of the Heir of Isildur.' he said quietly. 'Your oath is fulfilled. Go back and trouble not the valleys ever again. Depart.' Aragorn paused and for a moment he glimpsed faces in the shadows massed before him, saw into their hearts, the thoughts of loved ones long ago buried and vanished into the earth, and he thought he heard the sound of hooves pounding across the rolling plains under the wide blue sky, the clink of stirrup and harness. He thought of all those wasted years and pity moved him. He said quietly, 'Be at rest.'

There was a faint sound, like a sigh, a breeze that barely ruffled his hair but was cold as frost touching his cheek. And they were gone.

It was over. The fear that had stalked them every step was lifted.. Aragorn felt lighter than he had for days, since first he looked into the Palantir and knew his path was to summon the Dead. Now he looked about himself and could see clearly and realised that his vision had been clouded, that he had seen everything through a mist, through a fog of waiting, of fear, of whispering. He saw Halbarad watching him carefully, and Gimli standing near Elrohir. Elrohir himself leaned on the standard that seemed to flutter and snap even though there was no wind. The sun broke through briefly and glinted off his Elvish armour and raven-black hair. But Aragorn saw that his eyes were distant and sad, gazing across the wide expanse of silver water to a small black ship.

TBC

Translations:

Mazar-kut :Sacred fire. The fire of Mahal who made the dwarves without Iluvatar's knowledge although he later gave Mahal his blessing. (or Aule)

Êkhezd-dum: the Underground halls of the Seven Fathers

*Iglishmêk is the gesture-langauge of the dwarves. It is secret but Elrond is the greatest lore master in ME and it is a fair assumption that his sons would know something of the language of the Dwarves. Galadriel also reveals a certain fondness for Dwarves and understanding of their culture, as she would. In LOTR, Gimli found comfort that the words of his own kind were spoken by Galadriel, although Tolkien says it is a secret language and dwarves did not teach it to other folk. There are only a few words known (source Ardalambion is the easiest I think although there are plenty of other useful sites). Any Dwarvish scholars out there who want to improve this or give me a few easy tips on Khuzdul, I'd be delighted.


	9. Iron Fist

Chapter 9: Iron Fist 

 

Moodily, Aragorn leaned on the gunwale of the black ship and watched the gulls wheel and soar on the air above. Even now the thin light that seeped through the heavy clouds caught their wings and they gleamed with sudden brightness. But he did not really see them. Instead he saw with his inner eye, the obsidian glass of the Palantir, and the swirl of purple and red in the depths of that opaque glass coalesced to show him the green fields of Pelennor churned to mud, soaked with gore and blood by the relentless black hordes of Mordor. Flames poured from the white towers and over the walls, engulfing his city. He thought he had heard the horns blowing hopelessly across the Mountains, calling on their allies for aid… but too little. And too late. Already the Nazgul screamed with triumph, wheeling above the burning city like the gulls wheeled above the black ships that were too slow, and far, far too late. What was the point of having the Palantir if it was already too late, he thought bitterly?

Black sails fluttered emptily above him. No wind stirred the pennants that hung from the masts and the Men heaved on the great oars of the ships as they plunged forwards…but it was so slow against the tide, so slow and ponderous that those Men he had charged with bringing the horses on foot to the city would get there before him, he was sure.

He thought about the last conversation he had had with Gimli before they boarded the ships. His words still burned in the air between them and Aragorn winced at the strain on their friendship. Tired, he rubbed his hands over his face and squeezed his eyes shut. Gimli had been angrier than the Ranger had ever seen him, accusing Aragorn of ignoring Legolas, of leading him knowingly to his doom, and even his death.

'I hope you have time now, Aragorn, to think on the damage your carelessness has wrought,' Gimli had said coldly. Aragorn stared out over the iron grey water, remembering those bitter words. 'You knew!' Gimli had gone on accusingly, 'You knew about the gulls and about this… coo-ee-var or whatever it is-- you grew up amongst Elves so you knew… all this time. You guessed when you heard the Lady’s message. And yet you sought his company regardless. You asked him to come!' 

And Aragorn had almost gasped then. It was true. He remembered the night Gimli spoke of, the first night they had camped within the walls of Orthanc. 

Legolas had been restless in his sleep then, and Aragorn had stood watch until the Elf finally gave up and joined him at the campfire. Aragorn knew that Gandalf had delivered the last of his messages and that Legolas would wrestle with this choice and yet, and yet… Aragorn cringed. He had behaved selfishly, afraid the Elf would leave, and that he, Aragorn, would go to his terrible destiny alone and friendless. For Gimli would go with Legolas and he realised how much he needed them both. His mouth pulled to one side in a slight grimace and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the memory of his words during that quiet talk by the campfire.

‘I cannot ask you this, Legolas. But I would have your company on this dark road, a while longer if you would grant it,’ he had said. 

Legolas had seemed to turn his thoughts inward for a moment. And then slowly, as if he understood the certainty of his doom, the Elf had replied, ‘I would follow you to the ends of the earth, Aragorn.’ 

Aragorn's heart shrivelled now at the dreadful irony of his next words. ‘Only to Minas Tirith, my friend,' he had said. 'I would not want you to go where you might meet death. The gulls cry on the shores of Pelargir…we will not go there.’

Legolas had moved then and the firelight caught the gleam of his pale gold hair. His braids lay down his back against the soft green of his tunic. Leaning forwards he had stared at Aragorn intently. ‘We have looked in the face of death since we first left Rivendell, Aragorn. Nothing has changed.’

Gimli had been awake then too, he recalled, listening to their quiet words. He had said nothing then. But here, when they had come to the black ships and had seen the gulls hovering in the air, the magnitude of Aragorn’s betrayal and falsehood shown in the dwarf’s earth-brown eyes. He had looked at Aragorn with fierce intensity and he had laid into the Man with uncompromising passion. Aragorn remembered every word. 'Do you know what he said when I asked him to leave us, to go with Eomer? He said it was faithless. That he would not fail your trust again,' Gimli had said as he stared at Aragorn with barely controlled fury. 'Do you know what he was referring to? Do you know how much that weighs on him, your stupid words at the Council?'

Aragorn looked down at the varnished wooden deck of the ship. He stared at the whorls and a deep scratch in the wood's grain. He had regretted those words, the accusation that the Mirkwood Elves had been lax in their care of Gollum even as they had left his mouth. He had seen the Elf’s face tremble briefly before the cold mask had settled back in place then. And then when Legolas had told the Council of Mirkwood’s subsequent losses, he had felt ashamed for his reproof. 

Once again he wished he had made time to seek Legolas out and make his apologies. All that time on the Quest… but there had never been the right moment and, in all truthfulness, it had slipped from his mind, until these last few days, this last week, when suddenly it had become so important. 

Aragorn sighed and rubbed his hands over his face again, feeling the stubble and grime that still clung to his skin. He leaned against the gunwale and frowned. Gimli had not finished even then, hurling out the devastating words like daggers. 'You knew there are gulls here! You have been here before. What happened? Did you forget?'

Aragorn had gazed at him then, stunned, horrified, unable to move or go after the Dwarf as he stumped off towards a small boat waiting for him. And so they had parted and he was alone without his constant companions. 

He stared at the grey water churning beneath the ship's prow. Aragorn wondered how he could ever look Gimli in the eye again. Legolas might forgive him, but Gimli never would. He would not understand that the Dead had clouded Aragorn’s mind, that their whispering and lust for vengeance had blurred his thoughts. Aragorn knew that he had lost himself, lost all thought for others in the struggle to keep control of the long-dead warriors. And the Dúnedain, the dispossessed Men of Numenor, had shared their need for blood and vengeance. Their destiny tangled inextricably. So the Oath-breakers now rode with Isildur’s’ Heir, he they had betrayed, with the same purpose. They had pressed around him, all of them, like they were cold, keeping him close, keeping him safe so others could not distract him from his purpose or his destiny. And he had ridden like the wind, without thought, without a glance at those with him. 

He pulled his cloak about him more tightly, shivering slightly in the cold air. Only when they had gone did he realise how clouded his thoughts had been, how unaware.

He glanced around and nodded at Halbarad. His old friend sat on a pile of canvas on the deck, cleaning his sword. Beside him a whetstone and oilcloth. Baelderon and Corbarad were nearby, one silently smoking a long clay pipe, the other whittling a piece of wood. They were quiet, patient, grim-faced, for this was also their hour. He felt the weight of their expectation grind on him. 

Suddenly he realised he missed Legolas’ mischievous teasing and Gimli’s gruff tenderness. To them, he was simply Aragorn, just as he was Strider to the Hobbits. He looked out and wondered which was Legolas and Gimli’s ship and leaned out over the gunwale once more. The great oars dipped and rose, dipped and rose, white water flowing from the blades as they rose as one from the river. The ship creaked and still there was no wind. 

oo000ooo

 

Elrohir had watched him through half-closed eyes. Having witnessed the Dwarf's ire, he knew what haunted his brother. Resisting the urge to go and smooth it all away through his comfort, Elrohir had allowed Aragorn to wrestle with his inner turmoil. He knew Aragorn well enough to understand that nothing would assuage his guilt. And he watched when Aragorn went below, hoping it would be to sleep. Too often of late had his younger brother let his hand stray to the Palantir, stroking the round shape through his satchel, almost caressing it, as if it warmed him. Rest was what Aragorn needed now. Peace.

Alone on the upper deck, his hand smoothed the loose braids that held his raven black hair away from his face. He let his dark eyes stray out across the grey churning river. Elladan was there. He was safe. Aragorn was safe. And his father and sister were safe. And…and his mother was in Valinor. 

He steeled himself. He needed to think on this. For so long he had denied himself and now he could turn away no longer. He needed to heal himself, to think on the other Elf who lured him and drove him to violence. And here, close to the Sea, with its salt blue scent drifting and the mewling of gulls wheeling above, he would sink into it and…and breathe again. For so long he had hardly dared to breathe, in case he felt it…He did not want to face it. Did not want to think…but he must. 

Suddenly he whirled away, leaping down the stairs to the main deck, and throwing the door to the hold open. He stared into the darkness and plunged below.

It was close and warm, suffocating. The darkness pressed against him and the ship’s hull creaked, the oars lifted and plunged and he could hear the groans of Men straining against the great river as it wound its way slowly to the Sea. They fought against it and he imagined their muscles bunched and slick with sweat. He would take his turn too…but not now. 

He retreated into the small cabin he had found and stood silently in the darkness. 

He dropped his pack and armour in the corner of the cabin, and sat on the edge of the wooden chair in the corner to pull off his leather boots. They were still muddy and spattered with blood. He wiped his hand on his breeches and paused, looking down. Already on his breeches was a stain. He paused and stared down at it. Dark red. Blood. And another stain nearby that was not blood. He groaned.

In the quiet dark another voice called softly, ‘Is everything alright? Elrohir?’ Aragorn had retired then, he thought. 

‘Yes,’ he answered quietly. ‘I did not mean to disturb you.’

There was a pause and then Aragorn’s voice came back softly, ‘You did not. These walls are only wood.’ And there was a soft knocking on the wall near Elrohir’s head as if to prove his point. Indeed, there was only a thin partition separating them, he thought. He would have to be quieter. 

He sat in the dark in only his light shirt and stained breeches, and stared down at himself in disgust. What had he become? He remembered the light falling on pale gold hair and his hands holding the heaviness of it, the fall of it, heavy and thick, wheat pale…he held the image of it in his mind and stared at it, following the long length of hair and thinking about the tight braids that held it back from the Elf’s face… No, he thought. Nothing like…So why did he feel this…fury and rage? Why did he think of his poor broken mother?

And then he had to turn from the image of Legolas to the dark tunnels and caves of the Orcs once more. And this time, he could not run. He forced himself to bring out the perfect Elven memory of it… forced himself to relive the moment...

He took a breath and stilled his mind... and another breath and slowly, he opened the door in his mind that had for so long, only opened in his dreams...

In the caves again, the heat and darkness pressing close, beneath his skin. The stench. Orc. Dried blood and bones, putrefying meat. And excrement and urine. It was horrific. He eased himself through the darkness that seemed thicker than air, like viscous liquid, like thick water- oil perhaps… he pushed away the horror of it and instead focused on sounds … a muffled sob? Further down the tunnel, he could trace the sounds to where a glow of torchlight flickered… a muffled cry again and as he eased himself closer, heavy breaths…grunts. He stopped, listened, stretched out his senses… and realised what he heard, for he was no innocent himself. And then the red hot anger and fury blazed through his blood and he could not stop…  
No.

Elrohir opened his eyes and stared into the darkness. 

No. That is not how it happened. He had not blazed like a fury and flung open the door. The night he had crept into the Orc den, he had already been aroused by battle, already felt that excitement akin to desire. He knew other warriors felt it too; Glorfindel had warned him of it before his first skirmish, had told him of the lust that swelled him and sometimes led Men who could not control themselves to atrocities. But Elrohir Peredhel understood well that lust…he had felt it before Glorfindel ever spoke of it. He had already experienced it, fought its unnatural hold upon him. And he already knew the dark lust that raised its head like a predator when he crept silently down the tunnel and paused to listen. 

A stifled scream tore through the dark as he eased open the heavy barred door. Inside the cell an Orc stood pushing up against a pile of rags and filthy matted hair, a shapeless huddle that whimpered and cried. The dark lust within him raised its head to listen. A pale breast showed through the torn fabric already filthy and stained, ripped into shreds, and he stared, though his sword glinted in the torchlight. The Orc was panting, thrusting itself into the shapeless form which moved and protesting hands clawed at the Orc. Elrohir held his sword before him and paused…  
Yes. This was it. He had paused, watching the Orc thrusting, its mouth wide in lust and the whimpering form hanging loosely from its grip, pushed against the stone wall. Elrohir had felt a horrible kinship, the power of violence, he felt himself swell and the erotic charge. He had almost groaned when the Orc suddenly stiffened as it released and at that moment, Elrohir moved as if released from his own spell. The Orc turned suddenly and seeing the Elf standing there, roared with rage. It dropped the ragged form and turned, dragging its iron sword from the sheath as it turned to confront the intruder. Elrohir had simply, elatedly, lustfully slashed the Orc’s throat so its blood burbled erotically from the gash and it fell to the ground. He wanted to sink his hands into its gorged flesh, to tear its heart from its chest and thrust into it himself. The stink of its release filled the cell, horrible and familiar.  
The ragged shape that stank of blood and semen now crawled away from him, mumbling and weeping. Still sunk in the bloodlust and violence of killing, he had grasped its hair, thinking at first it was some female Orc or some creature corrupted by darkness and Shadow for it seemed shrivelled and wizened. And then…a long pale hand had scrabbled towards the Orc’s fallen sword, scrambling to hold it and the rough voice whispered brokenly.   
Tangled filthy hair dropped around her face… and her eyes, unfocused and bright with defiance and tears had made him see her. His eyes widened in terror and he had nearly pushed her away when he realized the full horror of what he discovered.  
…Mother...   
He had watched while his own mother was... No! No! He could not think on that. But still the memories flooded him, for when he had lifted her, she had torn at his face and screamed, struggling and saying vile things to him. She was out of her mind then but it did not matter, for it was true. All true. He was as bad as the Orc that had violated her. Worse! Worse than any Orc …

That was enough. He could not bear to think on it any more. He had confronted enough. Elrohir turned away and found that he had gouged the palms of his hands with his own nails. This was the cause. That he had found his mother without even knowing it was her. That he had felt the desire burgeon in him as he watched her rape. Suddenly he gagged and his hand flew trembling to his throat. He leaned over and retched, as he had all those years ago when he realised. He had retched until his stomach was empty and still he retched, the smell of his own musk stinking in his nostrils.   
He was worse than any Orc. He should have died over and over. Shuddering, he wiped his mouth with his hand. 

'Elrohir?' a voice called quietly.

Closing his eyes, Elrohir let his head fall back against the timbers. He did not want to speak but Aragorn would worry if he did not and might seek him out. 'I am well, Aragorn,' he called softly back. 

There was a pause and he waited, knowing that Aragorn wanted to offer comfort, would be wondering if he should come in or of he should leave him be. He knew his brother well and a moment later he heard him call quietly, 'If you need me, I am here.'

It was enough.

000o0o0o0o0

On another ship, in another cabin, Legolas drifted in sleep. The waves lulled him with the soft splashing of water and the rise and fall of the ship. But something intruded. A small noise, muffled, distant and he closed it out. Whatever it was, someone else could take care of it. He let his thoughts drift, and as he always did when seeking the dream paths, he thought of the forest and was perturbed that he did not find the peace he usually felt when his thoughts drifted among the tall trees, lush ferns and deep moss on grey granite stone. He tried harder…clear forest streams rushing over mossy boulders, water white and silver, little waves splashing at the side of the rafts that took the empty barrels down the deep, dark, forest stream, the waves splashing on the bow, the silver water rushing past the grey pebbles… the soughing of the wind in the white sails and white winged birds caught aloft on the breeze that came up from the Sea…he was lost...

oo000oo0

Elladan quietly opened the door of the small cabin and peered in. He hoped Legolas would be resting and at first, was pleased to see the Elf had fallen into reverie, his eyes glazed, lips parted slightly as he walked in some pleasant forest dream…but he noticed the cup dangling from nerveless fingers and a patch of dampness on the blanket near the cup. He strode into the cabin and lifted the cup, set it down on the small table and bent over Legolas, looking anxiously into his eyes. The pupils, dilated wider than any Imladrian's, were wide and unseeing. A thin line of green limned the pupil like a cat’s eye in the darkness. Curious, he stared and wondered if this was what allowed the Mirkwood Elves to see better in the dark. 

Legolas' breathing was very slow and deep, and Elladan knew he was not sleeping in a natural reverie. He recognised the cuivëar all too well and lifted Legolas’ head gently to smooth his hair and tuck his arm more comfortably under the blanket. His skin was warm and his muscles were hard. The warrior markings on his skin glowed a little in the soft light from the oil lamp. Elladan found himself still holding Legolas' arm and staring, mouth open. Suddenly he pulled away, disgusted with himself. What was wrong with him? He did not go in for dalliances with other warriors, no matter how far from home. It was not the way of the Noldor even if what he had heard about the wild Woodelves of Mirkwood were true. And it was enough that Elrohir had…he shook himself. He did not want to think about what his brother had done.

He leaned over the Elf and rested his hand over his heart and called softly. He used not only his voice and knowledge of healing, but his own inherent power. And slowly, Legolas’ pupils shrank and the green iris appeared. The Elf blinked and focused on the face in front of him. He frowned and pushed back into the pillows at first, bewilderment in his eyes. His breath came in quick pants and Elladan retreated, aware of his distress.

'Peace, Legolas. It is me, Elladan. You are safe. You are on the ship and Gimli is here on board.' He said these things that were familiar, suddenly worried about what other memories might have surfaced, but Legolas only looked confused and then shook his head slowly. He watched the Elf struggle, stirring despite himself, dragging him from the deeps, from the rushing waves and distant shore. 

'I was...dreaming I think.’ Dazed, Legolas spoke in a quiet murmur, as if not sure he was speaking at all. ‘But it was not … not reverie. I dreamed … of tall spires, and grey ships… The Sea…I was on a long journey. And then you… ' He looked away. ‘It was only a dream,’ he finished lamely.

'You have been in cuivëar,' Elladan told him, taking his seat in the chair once more. 'It will happen. You will dream…of Valinor, and the Sea,’ he said gently. ‘For now, yes, you are on board a ship, going to Minas Tirith. You have been injured, an arrow in your shoulder. Do you remember?’ he asked, scrutinising the Elf carefully. ‘You were brought here and Nestor and Anor took care of you.’ 

Legolas frowned and lightly touched his head. ‘You brought me here. You healed me…?’ he said a little uncertainly. 

Elladan said nothing but regarded Legolas steadily. ‘The sere-vanda will confuse you for a while. But better that than the pain of the arrow being drawn.’

Grimacing, Legolas shifted slightly and looked up at him. His face was slightly flushed and Elladan leaned forwards, placing his hand gently on Legolas’ cheek, feeling for a fever. But the heat he felt beneath his palm was not from fever and slowly he moved his hand away and let it fall to his side. ‘You do not have a fever,’ he said unnecessarily, his mouth suddenly felt dry. 

Outside the small cabin now, he heard the stomp of two pairs of feet approaching. Almost gratefully, Elladan leaned back into the chair, draping one arm over the back and grinned. ‘If you did, Nestor and Gimli would never have left you alone.’ Legolas still seemed barely aware of what was happening, had not noticed the slight flush in Elladan's own face.

Ever since he had declared the patient in need of some care, both had fussed and clucked and tucked Legolas in so tight he could not move his arms. Elladan had simply found it all amusing, and rather touching. We find our hope in the little things, he thought to himself. He cocked his head to one side for a moment and then said, ‘Ah. Your nursemaids are bickering.' 

Outside the small cabin he could hear loud, angry whispers, gaining in volume and righteous indignation.

'… going in to check if he is still sleeping!' That was Gimli.

'If you go in, you will wake him. Elladan is with him.' That was Nestor. 

‘Elladan does not know him. He will want to see a friendly face.’ 

Elladan glanced down at the still sleepy face of the Elf before him. His long wheat-pale hair was mussed and spread over the pillow, green eyes still half-glazed but becoming more aware.

'He will not stop until you let him in.' Legolas murmured sleepily. 'Dwarves are not very patient you know. Nor are they very subtle. He will take his axe to the door if you don’t move quickly.' He raised his head slightly to look towards the noise.

Elladan raised an amused eyebrow, unfolded his lean body and rose to open the cabin door. 

Two heads craned to see in, each with benevolent smiles. Elladan was aware of a quiet groan from Legolas as he let his head fall back on the pillow. Both Nestor and Gimli jostled each other through the door.

‘Only one of you.’ Elladan said firmly, holding the door only slightly ajar so Nestor and Gimli had to remain wedged in the doorway. Gimli glared up at the big Man who had managed to pin the Dwarf against the wood with his hip. Gimli simply bared his teeth and raised his elbow and Elladan, who had seen this move before, winced in sympathy as the Dwarf’s meaty arms collided with the Man’s groin. Ooch. Nestor crumbled and Gimli triumphantly pushed his way in. Elladan patted Nestor on his arm consolingly. 

‘Right. Good.’ Gimli said, quickly scanning Legolas who rolled his eyes and sighed. ‘Did you miss me?’ he demanded. 

'I am getting well, Nana Gimli. Look.' Legolas lifted his arm for inspection and although it was clear it did pull, it had not been a deep wound and he was healing quickly. 

Elladan waved his hand at the chair, indicating that Gimli should take it. The Dwarf stood for a moment though, and stared at his friend, his deep brown eyes fixed, not on the wound, but locked on the Elf’s green eyes. They held each other’s gaze for a moment and then Gimli sighed, glancing away and sank into the chair. 

'Nana?’ Elladan raised his eyebrow at Legolas. Legolas grinned weakly. 

‘Yes,’ said the Dwarf defiantly. ‘It is Sylvan for ‘Fearsome Dwarf Lord.’ He raised his chin, folded his arms and stretched out his legs.

Elladan laughed and moved towards the door. It would soothe Legolas to have the solid presence of the Dwarf, to hear his friend’s tales and tall stories, to count the number of Orcs they had killed. 'He is much improved, Gimli. I think I can leave him in your care whilst I look at the others. Call if he starts to sicken though-- you know how delicate these Woodelves are.’ 

As he left he remembered Glorfindel telling him about the Elves of Mirkwood. He could hear Glorfindel’s voice in his own head, as if his long time mentor and friend was standing next to him, deep golden hair gleaming like old coins in the candlelight, head tilted and that wry smile on his lips. 'Never wager, gossip, or fight with a Woodelf-- they will always beat you.’ That mix of disapproval and admiration in his voice, 'They fight like demons, unstoppable, relentless and the most ferocious things I have ever seen. And they have a fey distant look in their eyes as if they are listening to something else that you cannot hear.’   
‘Trees? Or perhaps flowers,’ someone had interjected dismissively. He could not remember who but it was common in Imladris to dismiss, even disparage the Woodelves.

But Glorfindel had snorted. ‘When you've seen a Woodelf gut an Orc without a second glance, you know they aren’t listening to flowers. And they can shoot a bat's eye in the dark.’ 

Elladan glanced back at the two friends and felt a sudden and unexpected surge of emotion. Was that jealousy? Envy perhaps? The easy love that bound these two, the camaraderie and affection that laced their words was rare in these times of war… and he lingered too, on the memory of Legolas’ warm cheek under his hand and the heat that had suffused his palm when he touched him.

oo00oo0o0

Legolas too was aware of the easy grace of this son of Elrond. As Elladan turned and left, the fall of his long black hair caught the light and again, Legolas glimpsed the almost blue depths, the loose braids so different from those he wore himself. And there was a resonance, a memory of his name traced on his skin, fingers following the patterns of runes on his chest, above his heart, calling him back from the dream of the Sea. But then a sudden sense of wrongness assailed him, unlooked for and unexplained. He frowned slightly and shook his head. Later, he told himself. He would think about it later, when his head was clear of this numbing sere-vanda.

He closed his eyes briefly and when he opened them, Gimli’s deep brown eyes were staring into his face, studying him anxiously.

‘You look better. More colour in your cheeks. Must be the …the air,’ he said hesitantly, Legolas looked at the Dwarf uncertainly. ‘And you have rested properly for a change.’ Gimli looked about him worried, ‘Are you hungry?’

Legolas shook his head. ‘No, I still feel too sick to eat. My stomach ails! It is the sere-vanda. It does terrible things to your insides,’ he added grimacing. He remembered a particular patrol in the depths of the bitter Winter when the wolves had howled closer to his father's stronghold than they had ever dared before; he had been injured, taken the drug to ease the pain so they could return more quickly and then suffered the horrible gut-churning side-effects which, he felt, had been worse than the original pain.

‘You must eat. Many a Dwarf I know has refused to eat after a cave-in or battle and taken far too long to heal because of it. Have I told you about the time I was caved in at the Grey Mountain Deep?’ Pulling his chair closer, Gimli settled himself comfortably and reached into his coat.

‘Yes, you have,’ Legolas said hastily. ‘Oh wait. Was it the Grey Mountain or the Blue Mountain you told me about?' he said putting his head on one side as if to think. Gimli's bright eyes caught his in amusement. 'Or was it the Grey Mountain Deep or Open Cast? It could have been any of them. I think I have heard all your tales of cave-ins.’

Grinning generously, the Dwarf pulled out his pipe. ‘Well then, since you enjoyed them so much I will tell you a new story. Now I know I have not told you this one.' He leaned back in the chair and began to speak in the slightly louder, slower voice that Legolas recognised as Gimli’s best story-telling voice. ‘I was digging in the Lonely Mountain, in the darkest, deepest shaft, when I smelt the air change. It cooled…’

Resigned, Legolas let his head fall back onto the pillow and sighed. He tried to shift himself onto his good elbow but it made his shoulder ache so he interrupted. 'Gimli, your talk of caves and landslides is making me feel closed in. I have been feeling so much better. Perhaps you might help me to the deck and tell your story there. I could do with some fresh air,' he said hopefully.

Gimli suddenly leaned forwards and grasped his arm. 'You should not go up there,' the Dwarf protested with more asperity than Legolas had expected. 'You are not recovered enough yet. I will not talk of cave-ins,’ he promised earnestly. ‘You must stay here yet a while. You are not ready.’

Legolas looked at him for a moment, slowly cataloguing his body's health, and decided that perhaps a few more hours rest would aid his healing. The wounds had closed over but the one on his chest, made not by any Orc but an Elf, had not healed as well as it should and he knew himself well enough to know that he had indeed suffered from the constant anxiety, watching, and waiting for battle as well as the unspoken antagonism from Elrohir. It had hurt more than he acknowledged, that one whom he had admired had seemed to hate him on sight. 

‘Very well,' he conceded. 'Perhaps you are right. I will stay here for a few more hours. This sere-vanda makes me feel heavy and sleepy…Tell me what has happened instead?’ he asked. 

Gimli put his clever hands behind his head and chewed the end of his pipe for a moment. Then he told Legolas of the battle, of the Dead sweeping through the struggling knots of Orcs and Men, the surge of terror that swept through the Men and how they had fled. He spoke too of the valour of the sons of Elrond and the Dúnedain.

‘Ere that dark day ended none of the enemy were left to resist us; all were drowned, or were flying south in the hope to find their own lands on foot,’ said the Dwarf.’ Strange and wonderful I thought it that the designs of Mordor should be overthrown by such wraiths of fear and darkness. With its own weapons was it worsted!’* he said stroking his beard. 

Legolas noted the Dwarf had finally been able to bathe and oil his beard; it lay silken and smooth over his chest, gleaming richly in the lamplight.

‘So Aragorn has released the Dead?’ 

Gimli nodded. ‘A very bad idea in my view. Much better to have kept them with him. They were very useful in a tight spot.’

‘That may be,’ replied Legolas thoughtfully, ‘but I do not think Aragorn could have had the strength to hold them much longer. Did you not see how they leaned on him, how they sought to draw him ever more to their purpose. They wished to slake their thirst, to drench him in blood so he would release him. They drove him onwards…and he was becoming lost in their song…’ he murmured as if to himself. 'Indeed, as was I.’

As if satisfied that Legolas had admitted something, Gimli nodded quietly and sighed. It was like some tension had eased. ‘Aragorn has taken the largest ship for himself. He has unfurled his standard there. The Dúnedain are all aboard his ship. It is a place of great humour and mirth,' he said solemnly.

Legolas smiled and he was suddenly so glad to see his friend, to have back that bone-deep connection with this child of the mountain that he felt tears begin to prick his eyes. But he was not ashamed this time. He wiped his eyes and focused on the Dwarf. 'Elvellon,' he said simply, and smiled.

Gimli regarded him steadily and in his deep eyes there was great love and affection. ‘You are a mad Woodelf and I love you for it, Legolas. But if you ever do that to me again, stop dead in the middle of a battle and listen to some birdsong, I swear I will kill you myself!’ And though he spoke gruffly, he reached out and clasped the Elf’s hand in his own. ‘I remind you again of your oath to me, that we will return together and explore the caves of Aglarond. You promised you would not let me fall, and I will not allow you to fall either.' 

'Angren-pau.' Legolas squeezed the strong, capable hand in his and thought he would be proud to bring Gimli to his home, wherever that might now be.

Tbc

* ROTK The Last Debate.

The conversation Aragorn recalls at the start of this chapter is from my earlier story, Deeper than Breathing.

Angren-pau - Iron Fist


	10. In the Wind from the Sea

Chapter 10: In the Wind from the Sea

The sere-vanda was like drinking cheap and potent wine. Legolas' head throbbed mercilessly and he groaned. It muddled his thinking, made him confused. Even now when he awoke he thought he was back in the forest, spider venom throbbing through his veins, his shoulder… but it was not. He was here, aboard a ship bound for Minas Tirith in the company of a Dwarf. Said Dwarf was not present but had gone to get some of the fresh air that he denied Legolas. 

He glanced at Nestor, who had replaced Gimli to 'watch over' him. The big man was sitting in the small wooden chair, absurdly and uncomfortably squashed. In spite of his irritation at being kept a virtual prisoner, Legolas smiled with affection. Nestor had his head bent and he frowned with concentration over a knife and piece of wood which was gradually taking shape. Curiosity, as always, got the better of him.

"What is it?' he asked.

Nestor looked up, his honest eyes clear and blue in his weather-beaten face and all the strange crinkles in his skin squeezed together in a smile. Legolas was still childishly fascinated by the way men aged, and although Mithrandir had these creases, they were different somehow. When Legolas looked at Gandalf, he did not just see the old man but he saw beyond, to the light that was Olorin. Nestor was different, and he could stare without Nestor being offended or upset by the weight of the elven gaze.

'It's a horse, for one of the cabin boys. They're only children and have never had any toys, taken from their families as they were at such a young age,' Nestor explained. Legolas was silent. For him, it was one more reason to fight at Aragorn's side, to displace those who would do such things to children. It made his blood hot with anger.

But Nestor held the half-made horse gently in his big hands, carefully whittling away the wood to reveal the animal inside. Legolas found it soothing to watch, taken back for a moment to his own distant childhood…

…sawdust and shavings lay on the grass around him and Legolas looked up wonderingly at his tall father, so big and often stern, sitting quietly, cross-legged on the daisy- scattered grass. His long, clever fingers lightly held a silver knife and pale slivers of wood peeled away under his skillful hands. 

'What is it?' Legolas' own childish voice piped up. He was lying on his tummy on the grass next to Thranduil, chin in his hands and legs swinging behind him. He had been watching an ant wrestle a breadcrumb into its strong jaws to take home to its family. Legolas wanted to help but he knew now that sometimes when he tried to help, it did not help at all. His oldest brother had said to him only that morning that sometimes he had to let Nature win. So he was trying to do just that and not interfere.

Thranduil had slowly raised his eyes to look at his youngest son. And a slow smile eased across his strong noble face.

'It is a horse, child,' he said and Legolas felt a spurt of excitement.

'Is it Mithren?' he asked, thinking of his father's big grey stallion. Legolas was a little afraid of Mithren. His hooves were enormous, and sometimes when he shook his head the whole world seemed to shake.

'No.' 

Legolas watched a little while longer. Of course it was not Mithren, he realised. This was much smaller. Shorter. He knew it could not be either of his brothers' horses either for they were big like Mithren. If either of their horses had such short legs, they would have their feet dragging on the ground. Legolas snorted with laughter at the thought of his dignified, warrior brothers riding short ponies. Why, they would just stand up and the ponies trot off from under them! 

Of course! 'It is a pony,' he realised. And then he sighed heavily because he really, really wanted a pony of his own. Not just one of the ponies that everyone could use, but one that was all his. That he could look after and take carrots. But he did not speak his desire because his father would be cross if he whined and he was enjoying having this peaceful time with him. But he really, really wanted a pony. One that would run on the grass under the trees and stars. Star. That's what he would call it. Or Starlight. 

He realised the soft sound had ceased and glanced up to find Thranduil looking at him with concern but too quickly smoothed away when Legolas saw him. He wondered what his father was worried about. He knew Thranduil had been very angry about the Orcs but that was not Legolas's fault. He thought hard to see if he had done something that would annoy or upset his father. He could not think of anything but sometimes grown ups seemed to get upset over nothing.

'My lord?' a voice gently probed and Legolas started. He rubbed his hand over his eyes. It was the sere-vanda, he thought. It made him more susceptible to these light bouts of reverie. And heartache. That strange squeeze in his chest began again, and he pushed away the memory of yellow smoke and the glint of a spear lifted heavily against the flames. Instead he focused on the memory of that carved wooden horse that was still in some old chest at home, worn smooth and shiny with the press of small fingers over years and years. Home…he blinked a few times and then saw Nestor looking at him with the same concerned expression he had seen on his father's face all those centuries ago.

'My lord?' Nestor asked again, putting down the piece of wood and leaning towards Legolas. Legolas picked up the half-carved horse and stroked his fingers over the rough wood.

'A gift,' he said smiling, and Nestor blinked at him like he was dazzled. 

Legolas tilted his head to one side and looked at the crudely whittled toy. It was made with love, he thought, and he decided it was worth all the more for that. 

Realising how bored he was, he thought and then said, feeling oddly shy, 'I could whittle something too if you like. Perhaps for Annún? I am not very good but I am bored, Nestor, and my hands itch to be busy.' He realised that the fact that he was bored meant the drug was wearing off, but he had no intention of telling anyone else that yet.

Nestor's face transformed with pleasure. 'Would you? That would be right nice. I know Annún would be made up- he is a bit in awe of you,' he added confidentially and Legolas hid a smile. 

'Is he better? The nightmares have ceased?' he asked.

'Better, thank you my lord, but he still cries for his mother. It will ease,' he said looking down at Legolas. 'Will it not pull your wound?' he asked cautiously. When Legolas shook his head, Nestor leaned down and reached for something at his feet. It was another piece of wood, for sailors often spent their time carving on the long journeys. Wood, or if they could get it, ivory. He held it still in his hands for a moment, looking at Legolas doubtfully.

Legolas shook his head, pulling out his arm and showing it to Nestor. 'Look, the skin is healed. It is this awful drug you all keep giving me. It makes me weak and sleepy. If you let me stop taking that, I can be up and out and useful again,' he told Nestor hopefully. He was sure Nestor would not deny him anything, but instead the Man looked doubtful. 

"You have not had any for a while now,' Nestor said anxiously looking towards the glass bottle still on the shelf amongst the other clutter. 

'You don't have to give me anymore just yet. In fact,' Legolas declared more cheerfully than he felt, 'I am quite well. I really don't think I need anymore.' He did not feel any pain and frowned. He wondered how much he had been given and yet it was such a slight wound.

'Until my Lord Elladan says so, Lord Gimli and I will make sure you keep taking it,' he said glancing towards the door. Legolas followed his gaze.

'Don't tell me the Dwarf is out there on guard?' he exclaimed. He had been banking on Nestor’s indulgent care to let him go on deck, and appealing to the fierce rivalry between the Man and Dwarf that amused Elladan so much. It seemed they had overcome their differences in order to keep him 'safe'.

Nestor ducked his head ashamed. 'He insisted. He said you would try to escape,' he added apologetically.

'Escape! Am I a prisoner then?'

'No,' came a deep voice from outside. 'I know you well, Legolas. And you are not ready. You will think you are and you are not. You might as well get used to it.'

Legolas uttered what sounded very much like a growl and thumped the pillows with his good arm. 'Naugrim bauglir!' he muttered. 

'And that means ‘dear friend, thank you for looking out for me when I am too stupid to do it myself!’ came the Dwarf's voice back through the door. Worse, it sounded like the Dwarf was chuckling. Legolas was disgusted.

'What are you doing out there?' he called.

'I am enjoying watching black ships sail on grey water under the grey sky. I am listening to the merry tales of Corbarad and his humorous adventures.' 

Nestor fidgeted uncomfortably and looked apologetically at the Elf. 'I am sorry my lord. He insisted that you would try to go out and…he said you might try to trick me. I know that you would not,' he added hastily and when Legolas saw the misery in his face, he felt a spurt of guilt, because that had been exactly his intention. He would not for the world upset this kindly, gentle Man who had been so abused by others, snatched from his home and family, beaten and enslaved but still had the kindness that meant he could find time to make a toy for a child who had never had one. He felt suddenly humble.

'Forgive me!' he said impulsively. 'I know you do this because you believe it is to help me. Others,' he said loudly and meaningfully and in the direction of the door, 'do this for their own amusement!' He shifted uncomfortably and sighed. 'But I would like something to do, Nestor. And please stop calling me “my lord.” I am not a lord. I am only Legolas.' 

Nestor smiled almost shyly. "I cannot help it my… Legolas. I …We all feel so grateful that you released us. We would never have done so had you not…'

'Hush now my friend. It was Aragorn who led us and it is he whom we follow. You and I are fellow warriors against the Shadow now. So give me something to do or I shall go mad and have to strangle something!' he raised his voice again slightly. 'Something that might be wedged up against the door with an axe or three!'

'Very well,' Nestor smiled, his eyes crinkling in that fascinating way again. 'If you say you are healing and this will not damage anything, here is wood, and I will fetch you a knife.' He laid a solid piece of wood on the bed and rose to find a suitable knife.

'No need,’ replied Legolas brightly, reaching into his boots that stood nearby. A sudden scrape of steel and he pulled out a wickedly sharp blade that glinted thirstily.

'Oh, ' said Nestor faintly. 'That looks a little fine for whittling, my… friend,' he said quickly.

Legolas tested the edge against his finger and nodded. 'Sharp enough, ' he said, lightly stroking the pale wood.

They sat in companionable silence, with nothing but the sound of careful chipping and the soft peel of wood. Sawdust and thin shavings scattered on the floor around them. Legolas' long fingers searched the wood for the shape inside, and slowly it appeared; a bird, wings outstretched, head slightly dipped as it searched the waves, wings bent to take account of the wind, it looked like it would fly should he set it on the wind. He set to carving the sharp eye that gazed towards the distant horizon where the sun set over the Sea, where the west wind blew and brought the tang of salt air… 

When he looked up, the yearning for the Sea was so immense he breathed great gulps of air and suddenly said, 'I need some air. I need to see the stars.'

He barely noticed that it was the Dwarf who sat there and that Nestor had gone. Gimli looked away briefly and when he looked back at Legolas, he could see a deep sadness in his brown eyes. 'There are no stars,' he said slowly. 'There are great black clouds from the East and they cover the sky. Not a breath of wind, not a glimpse of blue sky. And at night, no stars. It is twilight and darkness. You will get no respite from there, my friend,’ he said sadly. 'No respite at all.'

Legolas let his head drop back against the pillow and for a moment, the Shadow took him as it had not since he had been a callow youth in his first patrols south, and stood in the shadow of Dol Guldur. All was lost then. All was lost. He felt his heart clench...Yellow smoke drifted across his memory then and the crackle of fire uncontrolled and raging, a screaming woman, a running child, hoof beats and an anguished cry, a trophy held aloft, still breathing, gasping, would not cry out… 

A sudden gasp and his hand flew to his throat. It had Gimli on his feet and urgently dropping to kneel beside Legolas. 

Legolas could no longer bear it. He threw the carving down and sprang to his feet, pacing nervously about the cabin. He had to get out of here. He strode over to the door to find Gimli blocking his way. It was strange how big he looked, arms crossed over his chest. 

'Where d'you think you're going?'

'I have to get some air. I have to … get out of here.' He simply darted around Gimli and fled.

Gimli sprang after him. 'No. Legolas. Wait. You cannot go up there! It will…'

But Legolas did not hear his words for he was already leaping up the steps, taking great strides, flexing muscles held too long in sleep, and then the wide sky and the clouds were above him, and … there was no wind. The low clouds hung threateningly above his head. The sails hung loosely from the masts and one or two Men sat around listlessly. There was the dip and rise of oars and the ship eased forward against the tide but it felt slow. Other ships slid through the water alongside them, Men straining to row against the enormous weight of the river. But they looked becalmed. He turned and gazed around him. The water was dark beneath the heavy sky, only where it caught any dim light it shone with a silver sheen. The clank of the masts and gentle splashing of waves was the only sound mingling with Men's voices, tense and quiet.

He heard Gimli stomping up the wooden ladder from below, and then the Dwarf stood alongside him. 

'Listen to me, Legolas. It is not safe for you to be up here.'

The Elf turned towards him and the mercurial light gleamed in his eyes. 'What do you mean?'

Gimli sighed and laid a square, capable hand on his friend's arm. "What about that serry-varder,' he said desperately, 'You said it made you feel muzzy. You might fall.'

'That has long since worn off in spite of your efforts, my friend.' Legolas looked at him sharply. 'You will have to try harder.'

Gimli chewed his beard miserably and then he said, 'In case you should hear them. Elladan thinks that you will be safer if you do not hear the gulls again. He thinks that the …cuivëar will not afflict you so badly if you stay below and do not hear them or smell the sea.'

He sounded so sad that Legolas smiled at him. 

'I cannot just remain below, skulking like a coward or like a prisoner just in case I see or hear something,' he said irritably. 'I have heard them. It is in me now…' He looked westwards and sighed, 'I cannot escape it now should I never hear them again, Gimli. It calls to me, calls me home…yet home is Greenwood, but it seems so no longer. After Saruman, I do not hope.' His long hair fell over his face then and he let it hide him. He let himself remember the sound of the gulls, the deep, deep resonance somewhere in his heart for it gave him some comfort to know that his own home amongst the beeches may have burned and be lost forever, but there, far in the West, was another home.

'I need the wind and the stars, Gimli,' he said, grasping the rigging and swinging himself up to stand on the gunwale precariously. He looked up at the mast and the gulls that sailed overhead even in this shadow-begotten twilight. Gimli swallowed a gasp. 

‘I will go aloft I think,’ Legolas said, leaving Gimli to watch the Elf skim up the slippery wet rigging as if it were no more than steady stone steps carved into the mountain. 

Below he could hear Gimli catch his breath as he swung himself onto the tiny platform of the crow’s nest. He stood upright on the swaying, plunging platform high above, only lightly holding the mast with his good arm. Even with no wind and no sunlight, the Elf seemed to glimmer softly, his long lean shape silhouetted against the grey sky. Birds suddenly flocked around the ship, drawn by his strange light, their mewling cry eerie. Legolas turned his face up towards them and followed them as they trailed away down river, back the way the ships had come. 

‘Here! Legolas! You’re looking the wrong way!’ Gimli shouted to him, fighting to raise his voice over the sound of the waves. But the gulls dipped and lunged, wheeled and their cry carried away as they flew west to the Sea. Legolas' heart followed and he was gazing, seeking for a glimmer of the sunlight sparkling on the Sea.

oo000o0o0oo

Elladan paused and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. He was exhausted. Healing so many on his own was taking its toll and he was aware that he too felt a soft tugging in his heart to turn West. The gulls cried to him. As he finished the final stitch in the skin of one sailor who had foolishly burst open his earlier work, he felt the need to go above and smell the air, the slight salt lingering there. 

Nodding at Anor, who had become a very useful assistant, he smiled gently at the sailor, trying not to be annoyed at his carelessness that had meant more work for Elladan. He realised that too was a sign of his own tiredness and his need to listen to the Song of the Sea. No, he was not immune. No Elves are.

'Go on, my lord,' Anor said briskly. 'I will see to this young fool.' The sailor looked sheepishly down and hung his head. 

Elladan did not have even the energy left now to speak and gratefully he walked slowly and tiredly towards the steep wooden steps above. He would spend some time above deck before he checked on Legolas and then retired.

Through the square of the hold as he emerged, he could see the clouds hung over them, so dark and grey they almost looked purple. There was no wind. The air was heavy, so heavy, he thought, that it must break so the torrents could flood from the skies. Empty sails flapped uselessly like a broken bird's wing.

From above, he heard a touch of melody that brushed across his heart, almost a whisper; an image of tall grass waving in the green meadows of the Lebinnin, where golden blossom and pollen drifted in the sunlight and the wind brushed across the blossoms, the wind from the Sea, from the West. 

He looked up to see the Woodelf clinging to the mast as the ship rose and plunged on the waves, and he sensed a low song being sung, so quiet he almost couldn't hear it… He thought the song familiar but he knew he had not heard it before…

'..Tall grows the grass there.   
,In the wind from the Sea   
The while lilies sway,  
And the golden bells are shaken of malls and alfirin  
In the green fields of Lebinnin  
In the wind from the Sea…'*

He felt a surge of irritation. As if he had not enough to deal with, Gimli and Nestor could not even keep Legolas below where he was at least insulated from the gulls!… Ah, he rubbed his face and breathed in. He was tired. Uncharitable thoughts were these, and unworthy of him. He should know these mortals would be no match for the Silvan Elf.

He stood and stretched lightly, turning around and looking at where they were. Close by, the other ships sailed, rising and plunging on the grey, mercurial water of the great river, Anduin. On the grey shore, the white sea-birds were innumerable and rose up as one crying on the wind that lifted them but did not fill the sails of the ships on the river. From another ship, the largest with its carved prow heaving against the great tide that swept downriver to the Sea, a figure locked eyes with him. Elrohir. His black cloak was pushed back from his shoulders and his hand lay on his sword, Aícanaro. They were close enough almost to shout to each other, but Elladan did not and Elrohir merely lifted his hand in greeting. 

The Dwarf leaned glumly on the gunwale and stared out towards the other ships. Glancing towards Elladan he gestured at the Elf clinging to the mast and leaning slightly forwards, gazing into the West. 'I tried to stop him. But…' he shrugged and let his head sink back onto his hands. 

'It is perilous to stir the Sea-longing in the heart of an Elf,’ said Elladan. He looked up at Legolas leaning dangerously out from the mast and shading his eyes with his long hand.

‘Why has it affected you none?’ Gimli asked bluntly. He had obviously learned the best way to ask questions of Elves and would not be drawn into any games. But Elladan was simply not in the mood for games.

‘It has,’ Elladan said, and looked away again. ‘I have seen the Sea before, long ago and though it sings to me, we Noldor are not as susceptible as our Silvan cousins. For them, it is very hard to bear and many fade if they do not follow their heart.’

‘Right. Well. That’s useful,’ Gimli said flatly. Elladan felt another surge of irritation born of tiredness. He closed his eyes, wanting rest but needing to tell Gimli, so he could understand and help Legolas. 

‘You are his friend, are you not? You must understand then. It will be a torment to him. Did you not see him when he first heard them?’ He sought to hold the deep, earth-brown eyes of the Dwarf, to really tell him, to seek understanding. ‘You must guard him, even as I guard my brother. You may wake up one day to find he has slipped away while you sleep. Or you will speak and find that he is gone in all but hroa, body,' he explained. 

Gimli did not flinch. 'I understand, Elladan. Your brother explained it to me so a Dwarf might understand.' Gimli said nothing more, but there was a great sorrow in his eyes and his shoulders slumped. Elladan wondered what his brother had said, for he was learned in Dwarvish and Edain lore as Elladan was not, for he chose always the ways of Elves and Elrohir chose the ways of Men.

Elrohir's ship sailed close, but he had disappeared now and instead a Man stood near on the quarterdeck holding onto the rigging as the ship battled against the tide. Aragorn. He raised his hand in greeting and even though Gimli saw him, the Dwarf turned his back elaborately on the Man and stood leaning on his axe, his head bowed. Aragorn faltered and brought his hand down but Elladan's sharp elven sight noted the hesitation and hurt in his brother's face, and sighed. He looked up at Legolas high above them, still leaning out dangerously far and as the ship dipped and plunged, the silvan Elf threw back his head and closed his eyes. Elladan looked away sadly. How could such great friendship that was tempered by death and shadow suddenly be so fragile? 

'How long has he been up there?' he wondered aloud.

Gimli raised his head. He shifted slightly and shook his head. 'It seems like hours. I cannot get him to come down. He will not speak, will not eat, just stares out West. Every now and again I think he sings. But that means nothing,' he said. 'He's always singing.'

Suddenly, Legolas pulled himself upright, straightened and seemed to lean even more precariously out, one hand tangled in the rigging, as if he would take flight with the sea-birds that wheeled and soared about him. Elladan saw Gimli reach towards the Elf as if he would stop him falling even though the Dwarf would never reach. 

'Up with your beard Durin's son!' Legolas called down at them, brightly, merrily as if were standing with them on the deck rather than balancing on the topmost crossbar. 'Oft hope is borne, when all is forlorn!'* 

He laughed then, a clear, bright sound that was lost in the roar of the waves that suddenly surged around them and the ship plunged into the surf and rode up. Legolas threw back his head and stretched his arms out exultantly, letting go of the rigging and then suddenly seemed to fall, but was descending the mast so rapidly that even Elladan caught his breath and the Men from Lamedon who sailed with them stared and pointed. Swinging from one rope to another, the Elf landed on the lower crossbars and then with a soft thump he hit the deck, and was suddenly standing with them. Tall, strong and powerfully present he leaned against the gunwale and smiled, as if he had never been lost in the dreams of the West, never felt cuivëar, never sank to his knees lost amidst battle while the sea-birds cried and called and wheeled above him. 

Gimli ground his teeth slightly and struggled not to chew his beard. 'You are such a show-off,' he said.

Legolas flashed one of his most dazzling grins and left Elladan staring, until Gimli nudged him with his elbow.

'Weren't you going to change his dressings?' he said, bringing the healer back to the present. Elladan looked at him as if he did not hear. 'His dressings? You were going to change them before you went off to rest?' he prodded. 'Smaug's balls,' he muttered shaking his head. Elladan did not reply for Legolas gave him another blinding smile and disappeared down into the hold. He followed. 

 

oo00o0o0o0ooo

Legolas stood with his back to Elladan as he slid the shirt from his broad archer’s shoulders. The bandages were spotted with blood but not unduly. On his skin the strange green and gold and blue swirls and abstracts seemed to shift under his muscles in the golden lamplight. The shirt slid to the floor and Legolas caught his long, pale, gold hair in one hand and lifted it up, pulling it over his shoulder. It seemed the long snaking dragon that peered at Elladan from the Elf’s skin, watched him as he stared at the muscular, lean body. Elladan paused. Legolas was beautiful. He had never looked at any Elf this way, had never touched another warrior as he knew some did when they were a long way from home… in the lustful, brutal aftermath of battle. But he wanted to touch this Elf, to stroke his hand down the long lean flanks and trace the runes painted on his skin.

Legolas glanced over his shoulder. ‘Is anything wrong?’ he asked suddenly.

‘No…No. I was just looking,’ Elladan blurted out. ‘At your shoulder,’ he amended quickly. What in all Arda was the matter with him? he berated himself silently. He was tired, that was all. He shoved aside the times he had brushed up against the Elf by mistake, when their horses had jostled against each other, or when he had bound his wounds, and the spike of desire he had felt at each contact. 'Checking it was healing,' he added stupidly.

Legolas snorted. ‘Of course!’ he answered matter of factly. ‘Healers are all the same whoever, whatever they are. They just want to prod and poke and push even when you say Ow. This wont hurt, they say.’ He turned towards Elladan and smiled to take the sting away. ‘But you, you are the gentlest healer I have ever known.’ 

Elladan flushed and looked away, busying himself amongst the bottles and linens.

When he straightened, Legolas was sitting on the stool, his back to Elladan once more, naked to the waist, shirt slung carelessly onto the small pallet bed. His lean frame slouched lazily and his arm was draped across the back of the chair that was pulled up beside him. Elladan breathed in and let his mind drift into healing, quenching any thoughts other than the healing.

But it was not so easy. 

When he approached and touched Legolas, smoothed away the strands of hair that clung to his skin, he felt the heavy silk thickness of it, and felt the warm skin beneath his touch, the hard muscle and steel sinew of a warrior. He felt his breath catch as his desire spiked unexpectedly. Suppressing it, he picked the end of the linen bandage and began to unwind it, passing his hands below the other Elf’s arm which he lifted to allow Elladan access. The scent of the Woodelf warmed him, reminded him of pine trees and clear forest streams and mossy pools. His hair smelt of salt sea air and the wind. 

When he leaned in to unwind the bandage from his chest, his own hair brushed against Legolas. In silence he unwrapped the soiled bandage until he held the long white linen in his hand, spotted with Legolas’ blood. In silence, he washed the injured shoulder, drenching a clean cloth in warm water and wiping away the old blood until it was clean. Beneath his hands, the emerald painted spirals whirled and he followed almost mesmerised. The dragon peered up at him knowingly, and he smoothed the cloth over Legolas' shoulder and beneath his arm and then leaned over him to wash his chest, his hands following the delicate swirls of blue and gold around his breast and to his nipple. Legolas said nothing, held himself still, silent, head tilted slightly to one side as if he were listening for something deep, below the sounds of the world. Elladan could barely hear his breath. 

Having soaked away the dried blood, Elladan warmed soap in his hands and then stroked the lather over the wet gleaming skin. His hands slid slowly over Legolas' shoulder and over his muscled chest, brushing against the nipple until it pebbled and grew hard. Legolas had closed his eyes and held himself absolutely still, barely breathing and Elladan could stare at the high strong cheekbones, the straight nose and generous mouth, warm lips, lean muscled torso and wet gleaming skin. He was like some sculpture, Elladan thought.

Holding one end of clean cloth against the Elf's warm skin, he began to wrap the new clean cloths around Legolas, pressing the linen against the rapidly healing wound. He was intensely aware of the other Elf … he thought he felt a low vibration, like a low hum, notes below the sounds of the world… 

Soft, deep, slow notes sounded, seemingly unconnected at first. And then their separateness dissolved into a song that wound its way through Elladan's heart. Its stillness soothed him, a slow deep rhythm like the long unending flow of the river into pools at night…a light touch like the moonlight on still water, barely a ripple of sound disturbed the surface but it was there nonetheless. Elladan sighed deeply and leaned in towards the song, and he found he did not move for it was his own song…the long notes of moonlight falling like petals on water. He leaned closer and found his lips pressed lightly against the temple of the other Elf who did not pull away but turned slightly to meet Elladan's lips with his own warm mouth, and wound his strong arms around Elladan's waist and pulled him in deeper. The scent of pine and clear forest streams lingered and mingled with the long notes of moonlight on water, of leaves falling in Autumn to the stillness of the pools. And then he opened his eyes to meet the strange green gaze of Legolas and abruptly Elladan pulled back, breaking the contact.

"I am sorry,' he gasped. ‘I am sorry. I did not mean to…' He stumbled back, dropping the linen cloths as he did so, but Legolas merely raised an enquiring eyebrow and shrugged.

'It was nice.' And then carelessly as if it really did not matter he added, 'I have never kissed a Noldo before. I wondered if it was different.' He licked his lips, a long sensuous movement that had Elladan reeling.' I think I need to try it again.' He caught Elladan's hand as he turned away. 'I find I am quite hungry after all.'

The tall half naked Woodelf leaned back on the stool, draping himself even more languidly along the back of the chair. The outlandish paintings on his skin seemed to swirl and undulate under his muscles. 

Legolas smiled cheekily. 'Breathe,' he reminded the Peredhel. He pushed himself to his feet and stood against Elladan, his tall lean frame pressed lightly against the dark Elf and he took Elladan's face gently between his two hands and searched his eyes. He thought how otherworldly and strange were the folk of Thranduil…the son of Thranduil, so close he could feel the other's warm breath on his cheek. Elladan felt the hard length against his own thigh and felt his heart beat and blood thrum with excitement, his own unexpected lust. He thought he heard the sounds of moonlight touching still water, and the whisper of pine trees in the high wind. Or was it the Sea's roar?

Legolas tilted his head to one side and smiled gently, lifting his hand to stroke away a tendril of hair from Elladan's face. Elladan heard a moan come from his own lips and closed his eyes. Not what he looked for, it was true, but he felt unable, unwilling to resist the lure of such comfort. 

Suddenly a cry came from outside and the sound of pounding feet. 'My lord! My lord! Please come quickly!' It was Anor; Elladan recognised his voice. 'Please! There has been an accident. Come quickly!'

The two Elves looked at each other in shock, and then Legolas was stiffly dragging on his shirt and already reaching for the door. He threw it open and caught a distraught Anor as he raced throughout the ship searching of Elladan. Anor saw the two Elves and instantly his face transformed with relief and he pulled at Elladan's arm urgently. 

’Please. It's Nestor.' he said.

oo0000oo0o0oo

tbc

* from ROTK The Last Debate.

Translation: 

Naugrim bauglir! – Dwarf tyrant!

 

 

If you go to Esteliel's site, www.esteliel and go to Sons of Thunder on there, you will get all the art work that goes with this for Mienepies. Well worth it!!


	11. The Hunger

This is the end of the first day sailing up the Anduin.

 

Chapter 11: The Hunger

 

Dusk settled on the Great River. Seabirds flocked above the ships as they strained upriver against the tide. Oars rose and fell and the freed slaves changed places to let the weary rowers rest. Elrohir watched the empty sails lowered yet again as the expected wind failed. He knew Aragorn was desperate and had looked again into the Palantir. But one did not need that dark globe to see the red glow in the sky away north. Minas Tirith burned.

Coiled rope hung heavily in his strong hands, burning where it was pulled across his palms. It was no great hardship to an Elf used to wielding a sword for centuries but it was a different sensation and he revelled in it, allowing the burning to distract him from the other pain, the hunger that gnawed his heart and fea.

'Hold on!' shouted a voice above him and he looked up to see a sailor, one of the freed slaves, balanced precariously on the crossbar of the mast, the other end of the rope in his hands. Elrohir stifled a gasp. These Men knew what they were about and were as agile as any Elf, he told himself.

He obeyed the Man's instructions as they raised the sails, relying solely now on the power of the oarsmen for the wind remained stubbornly elusive.

Suddenly there was a shout from another ship that hoved closer. A voice hailed them loudly. 'Ahoy!'

Elrohir looked over to see the Man called Anor, with his hands cupped his over his mouth, shouting to the captain of his own vessel over the sound of the ships and the waves. 'I have message for the Lord Elrohir.'

Elrohir looked up to the sailor in the mast and when he nodded and waved, Elrohir carefully dropped the coiled ropes on the deck and leaned over the gunwale the better to hear Anor.

'Good to see you my lord!' the man grinned and flashed his white teeth. He had tied a red scarf over his head and it gave him a rakish air.

Elrohir nodded and called a greeting back. 'You have news for me my friend?'

'Your brother asks for you.' Anor called and he looked suddenly serious and anxious. 'He asks if you would come aboard. We have a man down!'

For a moment, Elrohir's heart thumped and he thought it might be Legolas. 'I will come across in the skiff,' he called back and Anor nodded, looking relieved.

xxoxoxo

A sense of urgency permeated the ship as he came aboard. Instantly his hand was grasped and he was pulled with surprising strength onto the deck. When he raised his eyes to see who pulled him aboard, he saw the long sweep of flaxen hair and felt the thrill of the power in the Mirkwood Elf's touch. Without pause, without thought, Legolas pointed down the steep wooden steps into the hold.

'He is there, in my cabin.' Anxious green eyes lifted almost beseechingly, no trace of hostility just concern and he wondered if it was the Dwarf who was injured. 'It is Nestor…Elladan asks for your help.' It was lost on neither of them that he had abased himself in his pleading tone but Elrohir was more generous than to take pleasure in that and he simply nodded.

'Of course,' he said briskly. 'Show me.'

He followed the Elf hastily down the steps and the warm air of below decks closed around him. A low moan came from the cabin where he had brought Legolas and the clink of metal instruments.

'In here,' said Legolas and he thrust open the door and stood back to allow Elrohir inside.

Warm lamplight spilled out and he could see his brother glance quickly in his direction. A look of intense relief passed briefly over Elladan's features but he merely nodded. His hands moved quickly, covered in blood and a glint of metal between his fingers. Beside him, the Dwarf held a shallow basin and the water was bloody.

Elrohir glanced around the same room where he had brought Legolas, his lean inert body had laid on a small pallet bed that was no longer here, and if he were honest, Elrohir was glad - his own terrible transgressions etched perfectly and sharply in his own mind. A long table had been dragged into the cabin and Nestor lay on it - an operating table clearly. The pallet bed he realised, was actually a folding bunk and it had been stowed away to make room for the long table.

Elrohir pulled off his tunic and thrust it to someone behind him and rolling up his sleeves, he stepped towards the still figure of the bed. Leaning over, he glanced at the pale face of the Man they had released at Linhir. On the back of his head there was a bloody wound, bone showed through and something dark and spongy. He grimaced. This was not a simple operation - this would require something more and glancing at Elladan he could see his brother had nothing left to give. He looked exhausted.

Moving quickly he sloshed the rich crimson uilos over his hands, the sharp astringent pricking his eyes. Glancing over his shoulder towards Legolas' white anxious face, he saw that the Mirkwood Elf clutched Elrohir's own tunic against his heart. A strange feeling blossomed in his chest and he had to look away.

'We will need boiling water to sterilise these instruments.' he said. Legolas simply nodded briefly and whirled away.

Elrohir stood next to his brother, letting the energy slowly flood him, pulse through his veins. He focused and as always, the sudden sharpening of his own perception surprised him. He could feel his brother doing the same and their joined power washed through him, over him and reached into Nestor's still body.

'There are fragments of bone and possibly splinters of wood in the wound,' Elladan spoke in a low and urgent voice. 'I do not know if there is any damage to his brain yet.' Elrohir felt them too, the twinges of irritation in the Man's nerves, the splintering of pain…he reached deeper and found the blunt, bruising throb...

Elrohir glanced at his brother, who if anything, was as pale as the Man who was laid out on the long table before them. 'We will remove everything we can and then we will see,' he said soothingly. He turned to see anxious faces crowding on the doorway, Anor and Gimli amongst them. He glanced at the Dwarf. 'You have steady hands my friend. Will you assist us?'

The Dwarf looked up and met the Elven gaze steadily and Elrohir was struck again by the strength of the Dwarves. Gimli nodded briefly and asked, 'What will you have me do?' He stepped within the small confined cabin and Elrohir shut the door firmly on the anxious Men outside.

'Fill this basin with boiling water when… when Legolas gets back. Get this,' he grabbed a glass bottle of amber liquid which sloshed around the round-bottomed bottle, 'and fill the second basin with it. Prepare another basin ready for these.' He indicated the liquid amber ortire and another bottle of crimson uilos. 'You will need to soak a wad of linen in this,' he indicated the emerald sere-vanda, 'And hold it to his nose and mouth should he begin to awaken.' The Dwarf nodded. The light shone through each bottle giving the precious liquids within a jewel-like glow and Elrohir let his mind drift for a moment… to the last time he was in here…He became aware of sharp astute eyes upon him, and turned to meet the deep gaze of the Dwarf. He started guiltily and turned back to the task but he knew that Elladan had felt it too because his brother glanced up, his eyes dark and troubled.

xoxoxox

Gimli picked up the cold metal basin and went to the door to look for Legolas. As soon as he opened it he heard the stifled murmur of voices outside and the crowd of concerned faces clustered round him. Anor grasped his arm as he searched for Legolas.

'How is he? Will he be alright?'

Gimli drew a sigh and looked away. He was never one to give false hope, nor was he a healer. 'I do not know,' he said. 'They will cleanse the wound and do what they can. I have nothing else I can give you right now. We need boiling water. Go and help Legolas if you can. And keep it coming,' he added, thinking it best if Anor had something to do.

In the cabin again, he saw that the sons of Elrond stood close, their black hair tied out the way and the same intense look of concentration on their fair faces. They stood on either side of Nestor, each Elf with his hands placed over the Man's head, lightly, barely touching. Their eyes were closed and he felt a strange tension in the room, as though everyone were holding his breath and then a warmth stole over him. He quietly went about his business of preparing as he had been instructed, careful not to distract them.

It seemed forever but was only a few moments when one of them looked up. He had no idea which one but whoever it was, turned to Gimli and said, 'Can you set up the basins here.' He indicated the shelf of the small cabinet. 'We need a bucket for soiled cloths. There is a wad of linen in that cupboard and everything else you need will be around.' He looked quizzically at Gimli for a moment and then asked, 'Are you used to assisting in such things as this?'

'I have assisted in the field when I have had to, but to be honest, I have not done this before. '

The two brothers exchanged a look and then said something that Gimli could not understand except Anor's name was mentioned.

One of the brothers cast another look back at Gimli and said something else. He guessed they were talking about whether or not he was the most suitable to assist. Anor had been helping Elladan.

'If you think Anor would be better, take him. You will not offend me,' he said brusquely. Both Elves looked startled and he guessed they thought he had picked up enough words from Legolas to understand them. 'Well, let them think that,' he thought. Instead he told the sons of Elrond, 'Anor loves Nestor. They have been through much and in my experience, the closest person is not always the best person to help with something like this where there will be pain and blood. If you think I am unsuitable, I will fetch Legolas.'

'No.' Both brothers spoke more quickly than either they or the Dwarf expected.

No one looked at each other for a moment until Gimli squared his shoulders and huffed. 'Then I will help. '

'Do not think we doubted you, Gloinsson,' said one of them. 'It is a difficult and exhausting process. We wished to spare you.' The other twin was already holding sharp scissors and shearing away Nestor's dark hair. It fell in little locks onto the floor around him.

He muttered something to his twin, who glanced up but did not reply. Gimli did not recognise the words and he did not want to think about the pink spongy tissue or the clotted blood around Nestor's head.

His thoughts were interrupted by a light knock and Gimli opened the door to see Legolas and Anor, each holding an enormous pan of boiling water. Anor held the handle in both hands, straining to hold it aloft. Legolas however, stood easily and gazed over Gimli's head, one hand resting on the door jamb for the all the world as if he could carry both pans and run up the rigging on the way. It was clear he had fully recovered, thought the Dwarf wryly.

Gimli smiled at the anxious pair and took one of the pans. 'I do not think we need both just now. Keep the other boiling though,' he said and closed the door firmly in their faces.

He tipped some of the water in the metal basin and watched as both Elves scrubbed their hands scrupulously in first the boiling water that did not seem to burn them at all, and then they swirled their hands around the the basin of uilos.

'You will need to replace this now please, Gimli,' one told him. He glanced at both impassive faces and did as he was bid, sloshing more water into another basin. Metal instruments glinted in the light, sharp and hard. He did not stare at them for long, unbidden images of the razor edges against the Man's scalp formed in his own mind. He turned instead to empty the used water and uilos into a bucket.

When he straightened and looked up, he could not see much for both Elves were standing too close to Nestor and leaning over him. Dark heads bent.

One of them lightly passed his hands over the skull, sensing and feeling the bones and scalp. He peered at the bloody gash and gently sheared some more hair away from the opening in the skin and squinted at the dark pulpy mess beneath.

Gimli saw him cringe as he felt the bones depress slightly and the Elf immediately stopped, withdrawing his hands. He narrowed his eyes and looked down at Nestor. He spoke quietly to his brother again. The other brother glanced quickly up at Gimli but Gimli had not understood. The Elf smiled tightly and then leaned in closer, blocking Gimli's view of what they were doing. For a while there was no sound but the occasional clink of metal against the basin and the swirl as metal instruments were dropped into first the boiling water and then the uilos.

One of them quickly looked at Nestor's nose and in his ears. 'Munta' he said, sounding relieved. Gimli frowned, he did not know that word but he thought it was familiar. Then one of them spoke to him and he stared blankly back and he knew they had guessed he did not understand.

'Forgive me, I thought you spoke our tongue,' said the one who had asked him a question.

Gimli shook his head. 'A smattering only.' He grinned wryly. 'You do not have to understand every word to understand meaning,' he said and the Elf smiled. He thought that must be Elladan. The other looked at him sharply.

'We need you to hold the lamp closer please.' said the one unsmiling. That, Gimli decided, was Elrohir. Gimli shuffled nearer and picked up one of the lamps he had set burning. The light glinted off the metal instruments in their hands, silver and crimson as blood dripped off the blade. He eased himself to the other side of the table and held the lamp as close as he dared to the top of the table where the two Elves stood.

It seemed like hours had passed although he was sure it could not have been that long, Gimli's arm strained and he dared not shift for the intense concentration on the faces of the two Elves next to him.

Elladan wiped sweat from his forehead with the rolled up sleeve of his shirt and his brother paused midway and looked at him, before speaking in a low voice, and Gimli realised with a start that the reason they sounded so different from Legolas' soft dialect was that they spoke not Sindarin but Quenya. He had picked up a few woods of Sindarin from Legolas, but the truth was that he knew more words of Quenya for Ori had translated into Khuzdul the story of the Silmarils and delighted in teaching some words to the young Gimli. Granted, the Elves spoke with what he supposed to be a purer accent than Ori's thick vowels. Still he began to recognise a few words. He was sure 'lumba' meant tired or exhausted. And when Elladan replied more tersely than he expected, the Dwarf glanced up at his drawn pale face and thought Elladan did indeed look exhausted. His eyes had tight little lines around them and his lips were pinched. No one had slept or rested properly from the battle at Pelargir, Gimli thought, and before that it had been Linhir and the long ride, and before that… he sighed quietly. It had been a long time since he himself had rested or slept properly. No wonder then, that the sons of Elrond found things to disagree on.

Gimli watched them as they leaned in close again and levelled their intent gaze upon the bloody wound. Elrohir gently, barely touching, traced the metal spatula against the tissue and a tiny sliver glittered when he brought it out again. He swirled it in the boiling water first and then in the crimson uilos.

Then Gimli saw what they were doing.

Where they had shorn Nestor's hair around the wound, they had pushed back the skin. He gulped. Beneath the pale bone, pale pink spongy tissue showed and one of them held a metal pincer above it. Elladan squinted and gestured to Gimli to bring the light close and he watched breathlessly as the Elf lowered the metal instrument and picked out so delicately a tiny sliver of bone. As he lifted it from the head wound, both Elves breathed.

He brought the light close once more, watching their patient hands as they steadily lifted tiny splinters, one by one from the gash in Nestor's head.

The one he thought was Elladan said something in a low, irritated voice. Gimli caught certain words because Elladan punctuated them carefully and Gimli struggled to remember the words he had learned from the tale of the Silmarils. He did not know what 'mailë' meant but he recognised 'úcarë'-sin! -and 'ormë'- for that was how Ori had described Melkor's violent trespass against Feanor. He pondered over 'estel', his eyes still fixed on the pale pink wound as Elladan swirled the flat metal spatula in first water, then uilos. His brother did not reply but his lips thinned and Gimli saw his hand tighten on the pincers he held, so his knuckles clenched. He did not need to understand every word what they said to know that they argued. He had heard them call Aragorn Estel and wondered if they argued about him.

Elladan spoke again in a low furious voice then and Gimli caught Legolas' name in his words. Elrohir answered, his voice earnest. Gimli caught one word, 'vanda' and he recalled the word meant oath. His focus suddenly sharpened; why were they discussing, or rather arguing about his friend? He had noticed the bruise on Legolas' cheek had not faded and he himself had still not forgiven Elrohir for that fight. He frowned and listened more intently, but the words were too quickly spoken and he did not have the skill to follow them.

Both Elves had stopped and were glaring at each other. The one Gimli thought was Elrohir was leaning his hands on the edge of the table and struggling for control. It was he who broke the gaze first and looked down at Nestor. The Man's skin was pale and clammy. Even though there were no fluids coming from his nose or ears, Gimli felt sure he was not yet safe.

As if reading his thoughts, Elrohir turned to Gimli. 'It is not certain but we have removed most of the splinters and dirt. There is no damage.' He breathed, not looking at Elladan who still stood rigidly, fingers clenched around the metal scalpel in his hand. 'Thank you Gimli. I could not quite see where those splinters were although I could sense the irritation. '

'Ah.' was all Gimli could say. He had never been squeamish but the sight of that pale pink spongy tissue made him squirm and he felt unsettled by the furious argument going on between the brothers in spite of the delicate surgery they seemed capable of doing at the same time.

Metal clattered suddenly. Gimli watched startled as Elladan dropped the silver spatula. Reaching over, Elrohir gently took the instrument from his brother's trembling hands and laid it on the side of the cabinet. Elrohir's hands were bloody and he held his own gleaming knife lightly between his fingers. He spoke softly, gently. 'Avatyara.' But Elladan glared at him with an intensity that made Gimli step back.

Elrohir winced noticeably. He turned apologetically to Gimli. 'Forgive us. My brother is exhausted and does not wish to leave. But he must. Will you go with him and watch over him?'

Elladan narrowed his eyes and leaned towards Elrohir. He hissed something at him and abruptly turned away, and in one stride reached the door. Gimli watched puzzled as Elladan threw open the door of the small cabin. Immediately the lamplight fell onto the pale faces of the anxious Men waiting outside. Elrohir reached out as if he might touch his brother but he let his hand fall to his side and then shook his head

'Gimli…please, go with him.' Elrohir appealed quietly. Gimli looked carefully at the Elf and then nodded. The Men crowded round the door but Gimli shook his head silently at them and they fell back. A tall figure detached itself from the knot of worried sailors and caught Gimli's arm.

xoxoxo

It had been Legolas' turn to sit pensively outside and wait for news. It had taken four of them to bring Nestor in, carrying him in a sheet of sailcloth and gently placing him on the long table they moved into Legolas' room. Legolas and Anor had paced restlessly outside the cabin, trying not to get in each other's way.

He had focused, trying to ease the knot of tension in his guts, the gnawing pain of loss. But that loss was more than just worry for Nestor, it mingled with the strange elation and yearning that came every time he breathed in the smell of the Sea, or heard the cry of the gulls in the wild air above them. He had not been unaware of the furious whispers from within; he could not make out any of the words but trusted Elladan and Gimli that they would do all they could.

Suddenly the door had been hurled open and one of the sons of Elrond stood in the doorway. Lamplight gleamed on his long black hair. Legolas had stared, searching for something he recognised in the face that was taut with anger and contempt. The Noldo Elf's burning gaze, suffused with rage and fatigue, seemed to linger on Legolas before he pushed through the Men and lurched unsteadily down towards the hold. A brief moment later, Gimli followed and Legolas caught his arm. But Gimli only patted his hand lightly and trotted off after the other Elf.

Legolas watched the Dwarf disappear into the half darkness of below-deck. He looked back at the Men who clustered around the door anxiously, whispering to each other.

He pushed open the door and entered as quietly as he could. The other son of Elrond leaned over Nestor and was intent on the wound, his hands capable and gentle, moved through the Man's bloody hair, long pincers resting in his hands and a silver needle which he used to carefully stitch the wound. Legolas watched as he narrowed his gaze, and prodded and pressed carefully at the scalp.

Legolas drew back and waited, watching the healer at work. He smiled lightly, remembering his last encounter with Elladan, for surely it was Elrohir who had growled at him outside and this was Elladan who gently, carefully tended the Man. He hardly seemed aware of Legolas now, but that was as it should be.

Legolas saw that finally the other Elf looked up and when he saw Legolas he drew a small surprised breath. Legolas supposed that was because he was deep in healing, his eyes had an intent focus, his face expressionless as he busied himself with preparing for what he had to do.

'Have you come to assist?' the other Elf asked, a little uncertainly.

'I thought you would need someone…' he said hesitantly and then a surge of emotion in his chest that perhaps he was found wanting he asked quickly, 'Do you not want me?'

The dark Elf drew a sudden breath and then slowly released it, shaking his head. 'I was not sure you would...'

'I will do whatever you ask of me,' said Legolas humbly.

He watched as the healer stooped and poured some crimson liquid into a basin and set metal instruments into it. He did not speak again.

Legolas looked down at his friend's still face. Men were so fragile. There was a low moan from Nestor and Legolas instantly caught up the big hand in his own and watched the Man's face intently. Lamplight cast a softer light over his sleeping face and Legolas thought for a moment of death. He pushed away those thoughts and leaned in to listen to the Man's song, to the gentle sound of the wind over long grass and the breathing of all good things growing in the earth…but beneath it all was a whisper of surf on the white shore…

He was aware of a soft clattering as the other Elf arranged his instruments and then laid a soft white cloth beneath Nestor's head and began cleaning the matted blood. Every time a cloth became saturated, he thrust it towards Legolas who then threw it into a bucket in the corner. Legolas reached for sere-vanda but the other Elf stopped him.

'It is very powerful- only a few drops for a Man or it will put him into a sleep from which he may not awaken.' Legolas looked at the emerald bottle that he held so lightly and then carefully set it down again. 'Hold the light close for me please. It seems I am not done here yet,' said the other Elf, frowning as he peered at the Man's scalp.

Legolas held the light as close as he dared without impeding the healer. He could see white bone gleaming palely now. He winced as the needle pierced the delicate skin with tiny, precise, slow movements. Legolas became intensely aware of his own breathing, barely moving as he held as still as he could to allow the other Elf complete concentration.

He almost jumped when the healer paused, leaned his hands against the bench and looked down sighing. 'I do not know if this will work,' he murmured. He looked suddenly at Legolas and Legolas felt a strange intensity in that gaze, something different, darker. 'Men do not have the same control over their bodies. You just needed to be reminded, but Men have to be directed.' The healer paused and looked down again at Nestor. 'I do not know if this will help him.'

He watched Elladan leaning over Nestor and pouring his energy into healing; he could see the faint red glow of the healing aura and sensed the power, the fight the Elf gave in his battle to win Nestor back for the living…but when Legolas leaned in and listened, the song was not the same as he had heard before with Elladan; there was no sound of moonlight touching still pools. Instead there was a fierce, vibrant song of fire and red leaping flames, an angry burning and longing…it was the song of the sword and of war.

Legolas recoiled, startled at the change, for this was not the gentle soul he had sensed. He looked away and wondered about this, thinking it must be that in the battle that Elladan fought for Nestor's life, against the wound, against infection and disease, his song had changed from the soft silver moon on still pools to the hot fire of the sun, and he shivered lest he be burned in its rage and heat. He noticed the callouses on the palms from handling a sword and riding with reins that he himself found so unwieldily and distasteful. A ring suddenly caught the light and a dark gem flashed briefly. A distant, deep memory stirred and then submerged again.

The Noldo's head was bent over the Man, dark straight brows drawn together in intense concentration and a stray tendril of hair fell across his face and into his eyes. Without thinking, seeking only to assist, Legolas lifted his hand and stroked the tendril back, smoothing it over the Noldo's forehead and tucking it behind his slightly rounded ear. He stared in fascination. So he did not notice the other Elf freeze at his touch, or the heat that flushed his skin, or the trembling of his hand so he had to pause and lean against the bench for a moment. Legolas barely stopped himself from reaching out again and stroking his long finger over the rounded edge of the other Elf's ear. But he loved Nestor and dropped his gaze to where the big Man struggled for life. That was what mattered right now. Legolas knew he could wait.

xoxoxo

Elrohir struggled. Legolas' fingers had left a trail of fire on his skin and lust surged through him. Leaning briefly against the bench behind him for a moment, he felt his hand tremble and he forced himself to quell the power that suddenly flooded him. Images of lean, hard-muscled limbs wantonly sprawled beneath him, tangled in linen sheets and long flaxen hair caught in his clenched fist leaped before him. He dug his nails into the palms of his hand until there was pain, traced the razor-edge of the gleaming knife against his fingertip until the sting focused him. Drawing in a deep breath, he forced himself to stare at Nestor, at the blood that dried on his pale, clammy skin. He reminded himself that he was trying to save a life.

Steadying his hands, Elrohir picked up a wad of clean linen and swabbed the wound gently; his own warmth and healing fire wrapped the ragged edges of the Man's pain, encouraging the nerves to knit and heal. And the fire of his own bright soul fought the pain that sought to lure this gentle, beloved Man into Death's quiet dark.

xoxoxo

Elrohir took a small bottle and poured drops of athelas and sere-vanda, just a few drops. He swirled it around in the glass, watching the gold and emerald liquids blend and entwine like an embrace. He gently held it against Nestor's nose and mouth and felt his awareness drop once more into sleep. Meanwhile, Legolas wiped the last traces of blood away, then threw the bloody clouts in the bucket in the corner. Then silently, the two Elves put the folded bed back in place and lifted the Man easily, gently laying him on the bed and pulling clean linen sheets over him.

Wearily, Elrohir opened the door and beckoned to Anor.

'He is safe now. You will need to watch over him while I sleep. If he wakes, send someone for me.' Elrohir rubbed his hand over his eyes, his energy had been drained, for the fight against this had been intense and he needed to rest even as he had told his brother. He winced inwardly, thinking of the argument they had had and the angry words Elladan had spoken. What would he think now if he knew the thoughts a single touch from Legolas had brought?

But for now, he had only to settle Anor in a chair to watch over his friend. Elrohir allowed himself a rare, slight smile to see how Anor clung to the unconscious Man's hand and knew that even if he did not know it, Anor was giving Nestor comfort and strength to heal. His eyes alighted upon a small carved bird on the floor. It had fallen out of the unfolded bunk. He picked it up gently, setting it beside Nestor so that he should see something delicate and beautiful when he awoke.

'Come. You need to rest,'said a voice nearby and hardly aware, he followed Legolas from the small cabin and down the narrow galley towards the hold where he hoped he would find Elladan asleep. Several small stores and cabins branched off from the passageway and the darkness closed in on them. He could smell pitch and tar and the slight tinge of fire. Timbers creaked as the ship plunged and rose on the waves.

Elrohir became aware of the Woodelf before him, his long, easy stride, and the fall of pale gold hair down his back, the moss suede tunic and tooled leather boots. His own shimmer lightened the dark and Elrohir squeezed his eyes shut… remembering another place in the dark, the warmth and darkness suffocating, muffled cries in a dim cell… He gasped and his hand flew to his mouth. Legolas turned suddenly, concern on his face.

Elrohir shook his head, but he knew his eyes were bright with tears. He was too tired for this now. And when Legolas lifted his hand this time, palm outstretched, Elrohir knew it was a caress. He bowed his head, wanting that caress, wanting the comfort, but instead he put his own hand up and slowly caught the strong wrist. Green eyes, dark with lust met his and he almost gasped at the intensity of the other Elf's desire.

'Stop,' said Elrohir huskily, the words Elladan had hurled at him burned in his memory. 'You betrayed your trust,' he had said.' You slaked your dark lust upon him even as he lay there helpless. You almost committed the most violent of crimes.' But it was worse. His crime against Legolas was as nothing…he wanted to bury his face in his hands, to curl in on himself…his hatred of himself lurked in the darkness. But in that dark also was that coiled lust…and it stirred at the Woodelf's touch.

Legolas stood close. 'You healed me even as you healed Nestor,' he said, closing the gap between them and Elrohir had to step back instead. He felt a door handle in his back and stopped, pressed against the door. He shook his head again, feeling his own lust move and fighting against it.

'You…' Legolas smoothed his long fingers against Elrohir's heart and traced a circle over his breast, mirroring Elrohir's own hand when he had traced the runes over Legolas' own heart. 'You called my name.'

Elrohir drew a breath, focusing on his brother's harsh words, on his own hatred of himself, on anything that would keep Legolas from him. 'It is not me you want,' he said, shaking his head slowly.

Legolas smiled lazily, sensuously. 'No? Feel how much I don't want you,' he said and pressed himself against Elrohir.

Elrohir felt the hard length at his thigh, the lean body, muscled and battle hard. He felt the warmth of the other Elf bathe him and it seemed a green light suffused the air around him, like sunlight filtering through young green beech leaves, and the whisper of wind in the pines, a chuckle of cold streams in mossy forest glades… he felt the strength bunched in the other's arms where he raised his hands to grasp him, and the warmth as he leaned in to his mouth and felt Legolas smile triumphantly.

He opened his own mouth to protest but Legolas curled his tongue around his. It pushed against his own tongue, filling his mouth.

Abruptly he pulled back and Legolas sighed.

'It is not me you want,' Elrohir whispered again, barely able to speak.

But the Woodelf reached around him and practised ease flipped the door handle. It fell open. He stepped closer to Elrohir and suddenly he seemed taller and there were shadows on his face, his cheekbones sharp in the half-light, eyes shadowed in darkness and the bruise on his cheek stood out starkly.

'Let me show you how much I don't want you,' the Woodelf said and he pressed Elrohir back against the thin timber wall and licked lazily down his mouth to his throat. Gasping as Legolas' fingers curled around his, Elrohir felt his own hand lifted and brought to the Woodelf's mouth and with his other hand, Legolas traced the rounded tip of his ear.

Elrohir shuddered and the darkness in him raised its head and coiled. A brief image of Legolas, lean and naked body, wild paintings on his skin, sprawled before him like a sacrifice, and his own body bearing down, capturing that power and strength, subduing the other Elf to his own will, flashed in Elrohir's mind and his lust surged forwards.

He grabbed Legolas' head and pushed back with his tongue, wild desire throbbed and overwhelmed him. Grasping the Elf's tunic he pulled him forwards and then shoved him around so it was Legolas now pressed back against the wall. He felt his own desire pulse against the Woodelf's body and pushed his tongue into the compliant mouth, hot and wanting to fill that mouth, his fists clasped Legolas' tunic and he felt the strength and power that did not resist.

But he wanted Legolas to resist, he wanted the Woodelf to fight. He wanted to drag him to the floor and rip his clothes from him, to throw him against the wall, rake his nails and teeth over his skin, make him writhe in pain and delight, take him violently, to plunge into his hot body, to beat him senseless, so he could punish him for the arousal he provoked…He pushed Legolas back against the wall himself now and thrust one hand beneath the moss suede tunic. He felt Legolas pull his tongue in more deeply. Elrohir lifted his other hand to the other Elf's cheek to still him, to push him down to his knees… and he brushed the faint bruise.

'Ai, Elladan…' murmured the Woodelf and suddenly… suddenly Elrohir stopped. With a cry he lifted his hand away and the dark gem flashed in the dim light.

'No.' Elrohir pushed Legolas away. He stumbled back, covering his face with his hands. 'It is not me you want,' he repeated.

And even as he spoke he saw Legolas looking with horror at the ring on his hand. The archer's own long fingers drifted to the faint bruise on his cheek. In his eyes there was recognition that the dark jewelled ring had caused that same bruise.

Legolas staggered back, eyes that had been dark with lust now furious and betrayed. 'You mock me!' he said furiously. ' You let me think ... ai! You have fooled me well, both of you! '

'No. I tried to tell you..' Elrohir protested but a part of him wanted to drag Legolas back and to wrestle him to his knees, to fight him for mastery. 'Elladan...' he tried to protest but Legolas violently threw him off and pulled the door open. He turned and gave a last cold look at Elrohir.

'If you wanted to mock me, there are easier ways surely,' he said with utter contempt. Then he was gone.

xoxox

Elrohir leaned silently against a pillar in the crew's cabin, which was but a wide space beneath deck where hammocks were slung low and sailors' chests were tucked neatly against the ship's timbers. He could make out Elladan sleeping in one of the hammocks that had been strung across the hold for the rowers. Elrohir sat on a pile of empty sacks and stretched out his long legs. The smell of dust and wheat that had been in the sacks filled the air as he sank onto the hessian sacks, and mingled with the sharp tang of the tar the sailors used on the ship.

He wondered briefly if he should not simply leave the ship and return to Aragorn but he could not leave Elladan like this, or Legolas with such misunderstanding. It was clear the Woodelf had thought he was Elladan, although he did not know how this was- surely he realised Elladan had left? It was also clear that Legolas had intentions towards Elladan that he had expected to be returned. And Elrohir did not know what he thought about that.

He leaned his head back against the timbers and sighed deeply. How had it become such a mess?

Legolas. Before he could even think, the memory of that strong hand grasping his leaped unbidden to the front of his mind, hauling him up onto the deck, the other hand holding back that long sweep of flaxen hair. That light touch stroking his hair back from his face, caressing his ear. The press of his lean, hard body against him, his mouth on his, his tongue and lips and fingers...Almost, he could sense him. If he closed his eyes and felt for him, stretched out his senses, groped blindly through the darkness, below the velvet quiet, below the sounds of waves splashing against the hull, deeper than the breaths of his brother's sleep, he could sense the light presence of the Woodelf.

He breathed in; the scent of pine and mossy pools where clear streams ran, mingled with the salt sea air. He could sense him…almost, felt him breathe. Could almost smell him… he closed his eyes, remembering the feel of heavy silk of his hair cool in his hands, the glow of lamplight on his skin…tracing the runes…his smell…warmth…the coiled power of his muscles, his strength as that strong archer's hand reached down and pulled him aboard…pulled his head towards his mouth and kissed him with the same hunger he felt. And that was it.. he had the same wild hunger.

Now could he acknowledge the truth. It was not rage he felt when he looked upon Legolas, not hatred. But desire. A hunger so strong it almost hurt. A hunger for that power subservient to his, hunger for the control over that strong lean body… He heard himself moan…. and he felt himself fill. He clenched his fists and ground his knuckles into the timber floor. He felt the burgeoning of his desire, and rage… and violent desire. He had never wanted anything as much as he had wanted the struggle, to master him, to plunge into his hot body, to punish him for the arousal he provoked…for reminding him of that dreadful memory, of making him remember that he had stood and watched….

Suddenly he pushed himself to his feet and strode to the door, throwing it open and leaping up the steps to the open air. He breathed deeply, a drift of salt sea air lingered in the light breeze and the grey river water churned beneath the ship's hull as it rode the waves, struggling up river even as he struggled with his terrible desires.

 

 

QuenyaTranslations:

Munta- nothing

mailë -lust

úcarë sin

'ormë' -violent

estel - hope but also trust. In this context, it means trust.

cáma- guilt or responsibility

avatyara – forgive me

Source:arda-lambion


	12. Chapter 12

As always, thanks to Anarithilien for her superb betaing and pointing out the crunches! A beta makes such a difference and for very little reward, but the reviews belong as much to her as me.

And as always, special thanks to those who review-Spiced Wine, Savingfics Melusine on Ao3 and Narya and Naledi on Faerie.

 

Chapter 12: Battle of the Pelennor Fields

 

It was midnight and there were no stars. Instead, the huge clouds towered up from the East into great thunderheads but there was no rain. Gimli Gloinsson stood near the prow of the ship. He held one hand on the balustrade that bounded the quarterdeck and fixed his gaze on the horizon, where a fiery red glowed along the edge of the grim clouds that boiled and swelled. There was still no wind and the great oars dipped and rose, straining. He had already taken a turn at rowing and the muscles in his arms ached in a mildly satisfying way. Gimli turned instinctively to see Legolas leaping up the steep wooden steps from below and emerging on deck.

The Dwarf raised his hand in greeting and called out but the Elf ignored him, his face furious and set. Effortlessly it seemed, he leapt up and caught the ropes that swung down from the topmast. Gimli tutted and strode towards the main mast where Legolas was climbing swiftly to what Anor called the yardarm and fiddling with the stays or whatever it was that Anor called the ropes. He craned his neck to watch the Elf, wondering what in Mahal's name was up with him. Lifting his hands to cup over his mouth, Gimli was just about to call when there was a sudden burst of excitement from the sailors aboard ship; they lifted their hands and pointed away west.

A sudden gust of wind rippled along the dark river surface, fingered the loose ropes and teased the Dwarf's silky beard. Gimli looked about in sudden elation. Wind! The wind was getting up. That was what had excited the sailors and the still, sullen ship was suddenly bustling with activity.

There was a flutter of canvas and he looked up to see that Legolas had released the sails from their bonds. They hung emptily at first, then suddenly they were billowing in the gusts of wind that came scudding along the river out of the West. Men ran to catch the stays, and others swarmed into the ratlines.

He expected the oars to be put up but instead, they rowed with renewed vigour and the ship plunged and lurched forwards, and then seemed to settle itself. Ever the craftsman, Gimli noticed how suddenly the ship seemed to come alive, like a swan that had waddled clumsily on land but which now sped gracefully, cutting through the heavy turgid river with ease and it seemed suddenly elegant, racing across the water. He glanced up to see the sails full and curved voluptuously against the grey sky, black sails it was true, but beautifully crafted nonetheless. Perfectly formed.

Around him, he could hear the excited cries of the Men on other ships as they too suddenly sped forward, and the exhausted oarsmen cheered.

He looked across to Aragorn's ship and saw the Man standing alone on the upper deck. Anor had called it the poop deck but Gimli thought that a ridiculous word. Gimli caught Aragorn's eye and he waved and grinned excitedly. Aragorn lifted his hand and grinned back until Gimli remembered he was angry with the Man and looked away upwards to where Legolas clung to the topmast, his long flaxen hair streamed in the wind and his gaze was fixed determinedly to the West. Gulls wheeled and cried around him. Gimli chewed his lip first, then sought the ends of his chestnut beard. He did not think it was merely the wind that had sent the Elf flying up there. His face was set in that Wood-Elf mask and his eyes did not meet Gimli's. He recognised that way the Elf held himself, taut as his own bowstring, and Gimli wondered what had gone on below.

xoxoxo

Aragorn turned away from Gimli's ship and stared ahead. His own great black ship plunged and soared on the wind but he could smell there was rain coming, up from the West. Rainclouds scudded along the distant horizon from the Sea as if they too were ships sailing into battle against the great bruised clouds that spewed from the East. But they made good speed now and Aragorn felt a surge of exhilaration.

By daybreak, he could see even more clearly the red glow in the sky above the White City though it was still dark above the ships. The red glow was not from the dawn but from fire. Minas Tirith burned.

But the wind that blew from the West seemed to wrestle the heavy, boiling clouds and thrust them back towards the East, soaking the earth with blessed rain.

Aragorn turned his face upwards to the rain and suddenly, between the ragged edges of clouds a bright star gleamed in the lightening sky. He felt a sudden surge of much-needed hope and watched the gulls that flew with his fleet of ships. They soared and wheeled above one ship more than the others, and streamed away in the wind behind.

Turning back to squint into the lightening East, he thought he saw, far off, a spike of white light, like lightning had sprung from the earth beneath the city. For a searing second, it stood dazzling, far off in black and white; its topmost tower like a glittering needle; and then as the darkness closed again, he heard a sound, rolling over the fields and downriver, a great boom* as if a roll of thunder struck the beleaguered gates of the city.

Aragorn strode to the prow of his ship and leaned forwards, and distantly he thought he could hear the faint echo of great horns, the horns of the Rohirrim riding to battle. His heart surged. All was not lost. Rain drenched his face and skin, and over the burning city now, he could see where the rain was extinguishing the fires of Mordor, and a grey mist lay.

'Halbarad!' he called, 'It is time to give hope to Gondor for they are sorely pressed. Unfurl the banner of Elessar so that they will see it and know that we are come to aid them.'

Halbarad strode forward to stand with his kinsman and the wind caught the banner so it snapped and flew in the wind. There flowered the White Tree of Gondor and the Seven Stars were about it and the high crown above it; the signs of Elendil that no lord had borne for years beyond count. And the stars flamed in their own light for they were wrought of gems by Arwen, daughter of Elrond; and the crown was bright for it was wrought of mithril and gold.* The banner streamed out in the wind as they approached the smoking ruin of Harlond.

Ahead of them acrid smoke and fog billowed over the water and though they could see little, they heard the sound of fighting, the clash of steel and the terrible din of battle. Great battle-towers rose up through the fog, and spears and pikes of steel glinted in the firelight from the burning town. Through the mist came the huge, echoing bellow of Mumakil, and ever the rolling boom, boom as the gates of the city were battered.

It seemed far away that the bells of Minas Tirith rang out in alarm for the Guard of the Tower had seen the black ships and despair fell upon them. Aragorn gritted his teeth for there was naught he could do but hasten towards the harbour and alight to join the fray. His heart pounded with the need for battle and he paced the deck anxiously, the wind pulling through his hair and a burst of rain drenching his face.

As the black ships slid in closer to the quay and the hordes of Mordor spotted the black sails there came a triumphant howling and yammering. On the wooden jetties that stuck out into the black viscous water, Orcs raised their shields and clashed their swords on them, cheering. A Mumakil trumpeted somewhere in the fog. Mist hung low over the battlefield. Aragorn smiled grimly and unsheathed Anduril. As the thin line of daybreak scored the sky in the East, Anduril caught in the firelight and suddenly seemed to flare brightly and the forest of swords, spears and arrows glittered.

xoxoxox

Even though the upcoming battle occupied his thoughts, Elladan never ceased to be aware of the Sea, rolling, restless, the hugeness of shifting grey-green under a grey sky. And the clanking masts and soughing sails…seabirds called…He was aware that Legolas too was caught up in the cuivëar and that they both suffered as Elrohir did not. Now Elladan forced himself to turn and gaze over the churned water to the other ship where Aragorn stood at the prow. A glint of flames from the burning town on his sword seemed suddenly to catch it alight and he remembered its new name, Anduril, Flame of the West. An unbearable pride and sorrow flooded his heart as he looked upon his foster brother and saw the king he would become, and knew that Estel was lost to him now, that funny, serious child he had loved, with the always-scraped knees, whose childish tears he had wiped away, no longer belonged to him but to Gondor. And he would lose Arwen in the same way. It suddenly seemed a high price.

He closed his eyes briefly and turned away, and as he did so warmth at his arm made him look. Gimli the Dwarf stood nearby and with him, Legolas. Elladan felt a sudden surge of something in his stomach and his loins at the closeness of the other Elf and sought to catch his gaze, to share a grin and a promise after the battle. But Legolas almost deliberately, Elladan thought, turned away and showed his back to Elladan. Elladan frowned but he had no time to think on that now and he glanced across to his brother who stood on the other side of Anor and some of the sailors clustered on deck. The wind pulled back Elrohir's long black hair from his proud, stern face and his grey cloak fluttered behind him. The torches that were lit along the sides of the ship sputtered in the wind and cast a red glow so his elven armour glinted and the runes and swirls etched onto the breastplate seemed molten. Elladan thought he looked like some First Age warrior and was unaware that to others, he looked the same, his grey eyes stern and unwavering.

Orcs lined the harbour, pouring onto wooden jetties that stuck out into the water, cheering. Elladan quirked an eyebrow. 'The Orcs are cheering us,' he observed. 'I do not think this is their usual greeting somehow.'

And then Gimli turned and bared his teeth. 'They think we are Corsairs,' he growled quietly, 'come to aid them in besieging the city…well let them think on it, for I would taste their blood with my axe before they see we are their foes!' He jabbed Legolas in the ribs.

Legolas gave the Dwarf a sidelong glance and a ghost of smile flit across his face as he reached back and drew three arrows from his quiver. Nearby the torches flickered and sputtered and Legolas stooped to dip the ends of the arrows in a barrel of pitch. Then he flicked them lightly over a burning torch. Instantly, the ends flared up and caught on the pitch, firelight gilding his hair and face. Swifter than a glance, he had fitted the arrows to his bow and sent them soaring, thin ribbons of fire, over the gathered hordes on the quayside, into the billowing smoke beyond. He drew three more and sent those also soaring into barrels on the wooden jetty closest where they caught light and flames leaped up. Barrels of tar, thought Elladan, and he delighted in the other Elf's ingenuity.

There was a moment of silence. Orcs looked at each other stupidly, and then suddenly there was chaos.

A terrified trumpeting bellow went up. Rumbling thunder and suddenly from the smoke lumbered a huge tusked creature that Elladan knew was a Mumakil, scattering Orcs everywhere and plunging many into the churning black water. It raised its enormous trunk and trumpeted so the whole deck shook and the terrified sailors covered their ears. Then it thundered off into the smoke again and there was screaming as the wooden pier on which so many of the enemy had stood, collapsed and slid slowly into the black depths, whilst those standing on the burning jetty, leaped of their own volition into the water to escape the flames.

Legolas turned to the astounded Dwarf and grinned.

'Shall we join them?' he invited, pointedly ignoring Elladan once again.

Elladan wondered what had happened to change Legolas so completely, he tried not to think of the warm body pressed close against him, hard muscles bunched beneath suede and on warm skin the swirling, painted runes and abstracts that seemed to mesmerise…and squashed the hurt that pierced him. Instead, he looked across at the hordes of Mordor that still awaited him on the harbour wall, clashing their swords and yammering for blood and vengeance.

Arrows suddenly rained down upon the deck, like hailstones. One flaming brand thunked into the deck at the Dwarf's feet and he jumped to one side. Elladan was glad they had evacuated all the injured to one ship that stood well offshore and away from battle, for he did not like to think that Nestor would be trapped in the burning hulk. But now that the ships had drawn up and were no longer any use to them, it did not matter that they burned.

The ship's hull knocked against the stone of the quay. Arrows streaked back towards them as the Orcs recovered themselves and returned fire.

xoxox

The black sails rushed down from their mast and the ship slid in along the quayside. Gimli pushed his way to the prow, his great war axe held across his chest in readiness and his eyes gleamed in the fiery torches that were lit both ends of the ship. His teeth were bared and he glanced at his tall companions. 'Plenty for both of us!' he grinned and Legolas grinned back, showing his white teeth.

Ahead of them, the Dwarf saw that Aragorn leaped from the greatest ship, followed by Halbarad who had raised the black standard high and the White Tree glowed in its own light. Suddenly Aragorn's crew were pouring over the sides and into the waiting Orcs and instantly there was the terrible clash of steel and cries of war.

He dug Legolas in the ribs again and shouted above the sudden roar. 'You have yet to best me, my friend. The Dwarves are still ahead and before this day is out, I will show you and all the sons of Elrond what a Dwarf warrior is about.'

'I have naught to do with the sons of Elrond.'

Gimli wanted to ask him what he meant but Legolas had not waited for the ship to dock; he was already leaping into the waiting Orcs, his bow drawn as he leaped and flaming arrows hailed down with him. Gimli grunted and followed, his feet hitting the stone quay with a heavy thud. He stumbled and felt a hand on his elbow steady him. He glanced up into the grey eyes of one of the Sons of Elrond, whose sword glinted in the red light that lit the sky with flames of war. Elvish armour gleamed, mithril runes swirled on his breastplate and greaves.

xoxox

Muscles aching after the hours of fighting, Elladan kept his gaze wide, and realised Aragorn's small forces had moved steadily closer to the city during the long morning of the battle. Ahead of him, the main battle was being fought, and he heard the pounding of many horses and something heavier, larger thundering ahead. Dust and smoke and fog rose up around him and obscured the fighting. A huge Orc suddenly loomed up out of the mist, unaware of him and started as it caught sight of a fell Elven warrior in the midst of these Men.

It swiftly changed its surprised expression to feral lust and dropped to a fighting crouch, its long sword and round shield held across itself defensively. Elladan mirrored its crouch and circled warily and then stepped back briefly, luring it into a lunge that ended with its throat cut and blood gurgling from the red slash across its neck. It dropped its sword and its huge paws came up to its throat but Elladan did not pause but moved relentlessly on to stab into the back of another Orc. It crashed to its knees but he barely glanced at it, for the weight of numbers was against them. Elladan followed in Aragorn's wake, guarding his back as he always had. He was aware of his twin brother nearby and they ever fought thus- one guarding the other's back and both watching for Aragorn.

Suddenly a black shadow fell across them and a thin wailing cry pierced the din of battle. Men covered their ears and it seemed to give new hope to the Orcs. They surged forwards, snarling, and the shrieking wail terrified the Gondorian warriors he fought with.

'Nazgul! Nazgul!' came a cry and he glanced around to see the Dwarf glaring upwards as if he would incinerate the accursed creature with his gaze alone.

'Shoot it, Legolas!'

Surely, thought Elladan, no one could bring down the winged creature that sped across the grey, rain-soaked sky. But as he watched, the shadow wheeled and turned and swooped low over the battlefield, shrieking as it came like a storm upon them. Suddenly a thin flame shot out from the seething mass of Orcs and Men. The flaming arrow merely glanced off the tail of the creature and it wheeled again suddenly, thrashing its singed tail.

This time, the creature approached more slowly, its flight undulating and its blunt head searching. The Nazgul screamed again and in the distance came answering calls, two more winged creatures were speeding to the aid of the first one.

Elladan gasped and seized a bow from the dead hand of a Rohirrim warrior. If they did not bring this one down and soon, there would be three Nazgul in the sky above him. He had no time to light the arrow and nothing to light it with so he merely aimed and let the arrow fly. From his left, more arrows flew but the three Nazgul now began to converge on one spot and he saw the golden-haired Elf stand tall, great bow bent back and flaming arrows fitted against the bowstring. He aimed upwards and waited. It seemed to Elladan watching that time slowed and he waited forever. The beat of the leathery wings sounded over the battle and the Nazgul screamed overheard, circling. The winged creature swooped low, the raking talons outstretched towards the bright warrior. Suddenly Legolas fired, straight into its belly. Elladan let his own arrows fly and shrieking horribly, the winged creature writhed and flapped away, jerking and lurching in the sky. Elladan watched it as it plunged down into a mass of Orcs, smoke billowed out from where it fell and a piercing, furious shrieking marked the Nazgul's landing.

Instantly he was aware of Legolas' danger now for the other two enraged Nazgul had arrived and swooped and harried him from overhead. In the talons of each of the creatures were many rocks and they let these fall now where Legolas stood below. Elladan saw the bright gold head duck and then the Elf was running for cover beside a dead Mumakil. Rocks showered around him and mud flew up as boulders pounded the ground. Elladan saw him hold his hands up over his head and then he fell.

His heart almost stopped and Elladan leaped over boulders and corpses to the huge carcass now half buried beneath rocks. Beneath a huge boulder, he saw stretched out a pale hand. With a cry, he scrabbled at the boulder and heaved. But he could not lift it. It was too heavy.

He heard again the leathery beat of wings and a cry, 'Nazgul- they are coming back!' Elladan scrambled for cover as a storm of rocks crashed around him. Orcs suddenly leaped over dead bodies towards him, sabres and pikes flashing. He was aware of Gimli sweeping his axe around and the clash of it against a sabre. An Orc snarled somewhere behind him but he could not look around for one was right before him, its fangs dripped red and its bright beady eyes fastened on him.

'You in't what we're lookin' for,' it grinned horribly, 'but you're an Elf an' you'll do for the minute.' And it launched itself at him.

Elladan swung his sword and met the Orc's blade, the juddering blow shook his arm for it was huge this Orc, an Uruk from the bowels of Mordor. Swiftly, it leapt back and swung round with far more grace than its bulk suggested. This time it caught a glancing blow off Elladan's armour, the blade slid off but he felt the blow knock him sideways and the ground came up to meet him. Light flashed on a sabre raised high and in the Orc's eyes was a horrible gleam. Elladan could see from the corner of his eyes that blood was spilling from somewhere and there was a burning sensation in his arm.

Not this way, he thought to himself in disappointment. Not like this.

The Orc licked its bloody lips, and then quite suddenly, its expression changed and it slowly toppled forwards. The blade glanced off his greaves and slid from the Uruk's grasp. Elladan felt a strong hand seize his own and he was pulled to his feet. His brother stood there, shock and worry in his grey eyes and relief in every line of his body.

'Do not do that to me, brother!' Elrohir was saying when Elladan could make out his words. He brushed his fingers lightly against Elladan's cheek and then turned back into the battle.

'Wait!' Elladan caught his arm, 'Legolas fell here.' A strange expression flickered over Elrohir's face for a moment.

'Quickly then, I do not know if they will be coming back. If we are fortunate, they will believe they have hit their target,' said Elrohir but he turned and began searching amongst the rubble. He heard a gruff voice on the other side of the dead Mumakil and realised it was Gimli.

Sitting on the muddy ground was the Dwarf and beside him, mud-spattered but unharmed and already reaching for his bow, was Legolas.

'Legolas!' Elladan scrambled down from the rocks and squatted before the Woodelf. There was blood on his face, from a cut above his eye. Elladan lifted his hand to the other's face to find it batted away furiously.

'Leave me be. I do not need your charity,' Legolas almost snarled. Elladan started at the venom in his eyes, the look of utter contempt; he would say hatred but he could not think why that would be.

'It is not charity,' he replied quietly.' It is concern. Are you injured?'

Legolas pushed himself to his feet and stood, swaying slightly. He put his hand to his brow and when he brought it away, he stared uncomprehending at the blood on his fingers. He shook his head slightly and then stared at Elladan. Still dazed he glanced up and caught sight of Elrohir standing a little way off, sword still drawn and on guard, watching the sky for the Nazgul's return.

'I need not your concern either!' This time it was a snarl. 'I would not grieve for either of your deaths so give me none of your pity. Contempt has been enough until now.'

Elladan heard Gimli say something but Legolas ignored them both and strode away between the debris and jetsam of battle, stooping to pick up his knives which had been torn from his grip by the assault of the Nazgul. Elladan was not the only one to see how stiffly, how painfully the Elf straightened up and knew he was injured. He could only watch as the Dwarf went after him. Elladan felt a bitter pain in his heart then and looked back to Elrohir for explanation. What he saw was Elrohir watching the Mirkwood Elf, but whereas before he had stared like he was starving, there was a different sort of hunger there now. Elladan looked away, and wondered if he had not the same hunger in his own eyes.

xoxox

It was one of those moments in battle when there is a lull and Elladan was able to look across the battle field and take stock. The sun had finally broken through and was high overhead now and the rainclouds had parted to give comfort to all the hearts of Gondor. But the storm had left the Pelennor churned to mud, great tracks had torn up the turf as engines of war had been dragged towards the city gates which stood blasted open. Flames poured still from one tower of the city and great boulders, rocks were still being launched into the air to batter away the crumbling walls. A steady thump, thump echoed across the valley beneath the rain-washed sky and the air was filled, not with the clean smell of earth after rain, but the copper smell of blood and the salt smell of meat, for there were carcasses everywhere.

On a small hill, he caught sight of the green banner that was Rohan's and beside it was Aragorn's own black banner with the White Tree. He made his way towards it, hoping to find Aragorn.

As he weaved between the groups of fighting Men and Orcs, of Haradrim and Southrons, dodged trolls and Uruks and horses, he saw Corbarad struggling with a Haradrim warrior and clearly outmatched. Swiftly, Elladan ran towards the two Men and clashed blades with the Haradrim. The Haradrim's carved and embellished armour caught in the brief sun and it reminded him of the flash of the knives in Legolas' hand. But he turned with elven speed and slashed across the Man's chest, opening a terrible red wound.

An arrow whizzed by his ear and he glanced over his shoulder to see Legolas fitting another arrow to his Lorien bow. Ahead of him a huge Uruk stumbled and fell, the arrow sticking out of its throat, open-mouthed and gurgling it clutched at the arrow and fell thrashing upon the ground. Elladan pulled Corbarad from beneath the Uruk and the Man wiped away the black blood that spurted from the wound. He nodded his thanks to Elladan and struggled to his feet, ignoring the Uruk still clutching its throat and gasping horribly.

Suddenly the ground seemed to shake and tip sideways. A trumpeting bellow shattered the air around them and through the fog, a Mumakil appeared. On its back was a tent loaded with archers who now shot deadly darts amongst the fighting crowds, indiscriminate they seemed but one thin red shaft pierced Corbarad and his mouth opened wordlessly as he rose to his feet.

The Mumakil moved relentlessly onwards, its long, slow strides crushing anything, everything in its path. Its thick grey hide was already peppered with arrows that did not seem to bother it, and Elladan leaped to the side to try to get out of its way. As he leaped, his foot caught on the arrow protruding from the still-thrashing Uruk and he fell sprawling in the path of the huge beast.

Time seemed to slow and he heard Elrohir shouting his name, became aware that his brother was leaping over fallen bodies towards him, aware that it would take Elrohir straight into the path of the Mumakil and they both would be crushed…and then suddenly the great beast shook its head furiously, its great tusks raking along the ground, and it veered off left and miraculously away from both. It seemed to stumble onto one knee, and then hauling itself up, it righted itself. But the lurching and stumbling tipped Haradrim archers from its tent and they fell crashing to the ground and were crushed. The Mumakil bellowed in pain and its head thrashed from side to side, its great trunk curled up to its eye and then Elladan saw a green-fletched arrow in its eye before it disappeared back into the fog and smoke once more.

Suddenly the earth shook tremendously and a great cloud of dust rose up even above the smoke and fog already lying across the battlefield. For a moment, all was quiet, and then it seemed the noise of battle surged back once more. He stumbled to his feet and grasped Elrohir's arm briefly.

He had lost sight of Aragorn briefly and now searched for him. The Man was pulling his great sword from the twitching carcass of a huge Southron half-Man half Orc. Barely had he done this when he whirled his blade round him, and sliced an Orc's face in half, the pointed blackened teeth exposed in its cheek. Spattered with blood, both red and black, Aragorn was terrible to behold. It seemed the Elessar, the great green jewel he had pinned on his breast, glowed and Elladan thought such had Elendil looked at the Last Alliance.

xoxox

Aragorn wiped sweat from his brow and scraped his knuckle on the star of Elendil that Halbarad had insisted he wear. He felt slightly self-conscious but admitted to himself it had made many an enemy pause and stare and had certainly filled the Men of Gondor with new courage. He lifted Anduril and swept it round, slicing through the scalp of a Haradrim warrior. He supposed he would have to get used to it if he were victorious this day… an arrow whizzed past his ear and drove deep into the heart of a great Southron half-Man Half troll and he drove his sword into its trembling corpse to make sure it did not rise. He was tired. But he lifted Anduril once more and charged into the fray.

Ahead of him, he glimpsed a familiar figure, bright copper-gold hair, fighting beneath a standard of the White Horse of Rohan. He grinned to himself and fought his way to the Man. Around him the fighting seemed to die away briefly, tangled knots of Men were around him but as is so often in battle, there was a moment of calm.

He strode forwards, lifting his helm from his head and holding out his hand in greeting. Eomer stared and then laughed a loud, delighted sound that was incongruous in the midst of battle.

'Thus we meet again, though all the hordes of Mordor lie between us,' said Aragon, clasping Eomer's' hand. 'Did I not say so at the Hornburg?'

'So you spoke,' Eomer grinned at him with shining eyes, 'but hope oft deceives and I knew not then you were a man foresighted! Yet twice blessed is help unlooked for, and never was meeting of friends more joyful'* He looked beyond Aragorn over the Dúnadan's shoulder as if searching for someone. 'Are all our friends well?' Eomer asked. 'Gimli? I have yet to learn manners at the tender knee of that one.' He laughed and then, looking at Aragorn intently, asked, 'And Legolas? He too is unharmed?'

'Gimli was behind me a moment ago,' Aragorn rubbed his hand over his nose, feeling the mud and blood on his face, in his hair. He glanced behind him at the struggling masses below him, searching for the Dwarf. He would have to go on soon he knew. 'Legolas …' He felt a sudden pang of guilt and Eomer froze when he saw Aragorn's hesitation.

'He is not…?'

'No. He is alive. He was injured at Pelargir but he is healed,' Aragorn said evasively.

Suddenly a huge Uruk lumbered towards them and he was saved of any further explanation because Eomer levelled his spear at the Orc and lunged forwards, impaling the beast on its sharp blade. The Uruk bellowed in pain and squirmed on the blade but only cut its innards more deeply. Eomer held fast and Aragorn ran to hold it with him. Together they drove it deep and plunged it in further so the Orc gasped and then fell still.

The two Men stood for a moment holding the lance with its heavy weight dead and their eyes met briefly and glanced away, both remembering a similar sight that was of a battle far away beneath the leaves of the great forest in the north.**

'You come none too soon, my friend,' Eomer said. 'Much loss and sorrow has befallen us.'*

Much sorrow has befallen us all, thought Aragorn. He silently cursed the Dead who had so clouded his thoughts that he had not seen what was happening, the conflict that had erupted between Legolas and Elrohir, and that had brought tension between his beloved brothers, and between himself and Gimli…Strangely it seemed so much easier during the days of the Fellowship. And he had yet to face Denethor…

'Then let us avenge it, ere we speak of it,'* he said softly. Eomer met his gaze and to Aragorn, he looked older, as if a great sorrow clung to him.

xoxoxo

Through the fog and mist that followed the rain and fire, Gimli saw Aragorn stride forwards to greet Eomer and clasp his arm. But fighting Men, Gondor and Haradrim came between him and Aragorn. The Haradrim were fierce and gave no quarter and expected none. Gimli saw a Gondorian warrior pulled from his horse and his throat cut, blood bubbled from the gash in his throat as his horse shied away. Gimli did not pause however. He had seen worse and it was what one expected in war. Kill or be killed. He stooped and grasped a pike from the dead hands of an Easterling, or it was close enough to a pike for a Dwarf to use it as such.

A rider galloped alone between the great Mumakil, his horse terrified and its eyes rolling. It tossed its head and screamed in fear as the great trunk swooped down but it was a Rohan steed and loved its rider. Gimli cheered aloud as the rider's sword gutted the great beast from below and a hot spill of entrails spewed from the monster's belly.

Gimli barely paused before he too was assailed on both sides by the fell Easterlings. He had already observed their deadly skill with their curved swords and knew their courage. Briefly he regretted that they fought on opposite sides for he thought he could respect these warriors. Circling he swung his axe and let out a mighty bellow as he swept the air… air? He looked about puzzled to see both Men lying with an arrow in their throat. He looked around furiously.

'Legolas! They were mine! I am counting them!' He could not see the Elf but that meant nothing. He did not have to wait long however, for as he had said before, there were plenty for both of them.

'Gimli, look out!' a shout behind made him whirl round in time to step beyond the reach of one red-clad warrior, his face masked against the smoke and dust. Gimli grunted and swung his axe beneath the warrior's defence and the slash opened his chest. He looked up to thank the one who had warned him and saw it was Halbarad and his blade dripped black blood. He raised his sword in brief salute to Gimli's nod of thanks. But even as he did, Halbarad's expression changed to one of astonished pain. He suddenly fell forwards onto his knees, and blood soaked his clothes. He held out one hand to Gimli who grasped it and catching the Man as he fell, stared round in horror. A black shaft stuck out of Halbarad's back and the horrible rattle in his throat told Gimli all he needed.

'Aragorn!' he bellowed. 'Aragorn! Come! I need you here!' But the dreadful noise of the riders, the siege engines and the ring of steel on steel drowned out his voice and it was lost in the din of war.

He looked down at the ashen face of the Man who slumped against him. He held his cold hand and pushed his hair out of his eyes. 'Now come,' he said gruffly, 'You cannot leave him now whom we both love. Not on the eve of his triumph.'

'He will triumph will he not?' Halbarad rasped, his eyes were glazed and he was no longer focused on Gimli but on some other sight over his shoulder.

A hand grasped Gimli's shoulder and he was aware of another's warmth. 'Yes. Look. Even now he is victorious. See, our enemies flee the field. The day is ours.'

Gimli looked up at the dark elven warrior who leaned over him with tears in his eyes, his stern face gentle in grief. Halbarad's breath struggled once, twice and then no more. Gimli felt the elven warrior's grip on his own shoulder tighten almost painfully.

There was a silence then and the sounds of battle seemed to fade for a moment. Elrond's son leaned over then and lightly brought his fingers to Halbarad's face, stroked his cheek once and then drew his eyes closed. Then he straightened slightly and turned his face away from Gimli.

'His was ever a noble heart,' he said softly. 'And it is hard to bear when the fighting is all but done.' He drew a deep sigh and then he glanced over his shoulder to where two others stood in sorrow and said, 'Take him to where the white horse of Rohan flies. Aragorn is there.' Gimli felt the still warm body lifted from his arms and two Dúnedain took him hence and the Dwarf bowed his head in sorrow.

xoxoxo

Legolas glimpsed the Dwarf kneeling in the mud, head bowed and his heart plummeted. With a cry he whirled and stabbed the Orc he tangled with. It grabbed at him as he fled away towards Gimli, his heart pounding as it had not even in the heat of battle, his blood surged in fear. Before he even reached the Dwarf however, one of the sons of Elrond stood over him and when the Half-Elf shifted slightly Legolas saw with blessed relief that Gimli held in his arms a Man's body and it was not Aragorn.

He recognised Halbarad and panted with relief and then shame at his relief that it was not Gimli wounded, that it was not Aragorn who lay dead, but another.

He did not pause for the Sons of Elrond were there and he still could not bear to look upon them. He drew his knife over the throat of an Easterling and let the Man drop at his feet. War was not honourable, there was no grace in slaughter or pleasure. It just had to be done.

xoxox

Arrows in the hide of a fallen Orc were about as good as he was likely to get now and he took a chance in the lull of battle that seemed to have fallen, to replenish his empty quiver. Legolas did not wish to put his foot on the Orc's hide and grasp an arrow so he searched the ground for more easily gleaned arrows. Several had stuck into the mud but many were damaged and he threw them away in disgust.

Glancing around him, the Elf realised that the sun was setting and although the acrid smell of burning and smoke was still everywhere, the sound of fighting had lessened, almost ceased at least in the immediate area around him. Instead was the sound of the wounded and dying, the moaning and quiet weeping. Great sounds of creaking wheels or cracking wood drifted over the battle field from somewhere away to the East but he could not see what it was and he was still far from the walls of the city. He could only see the outline of the siege engines in the smoldering reek of war. 

All around him were bodies, corpses, Men, Orcs and horses. A huge Mumakil lay unmoving, like an enormous grey boulder. 

Of the Nazgul there was no sign now. He canted his head slightly to one side and listened for the sough of great leathery wings, and scanned the sky for any sign of the huge winged beasts that might signify the Nazgul's return…but it remained empty. He remembered the graze of the Nazgul against the edge of his mind…and it had known him, somehow…recognised that it had encountered him before. The thought was unnerving. But the open expanse of blue sky was empty.

For the first time, Legolas realised that the rain had stopped. The sun's last rays lit up the white towers of Ecthelion and Legolas was reminded of Boromir.

He threw down his knives and still empty quiver and sank onto the squelching mud-trampled ground. He stared at a track made by a siege engines, deeply gouged in the earth. Water that pooled in the track was red and gradually he realised it was blood. So much blood. Quite suddenly it was all too much and he wanted to bury his head in his arms for a moment but he knew better than to let his guard drop even now. Still, he felt his breath hitch in a slight sob. He was tired of the fighting. He wanted to be home amongst the trees, beneath the dappled sunlit leaves, to feel the soft moss and pine needles, to smell something other than blood and the rotting flesh of the slain.

Slowly he realised the dampness of the mud churned beneath his feet. His boots were wet and stained with mud and blood and his eyes felt gritty. He lifted his head to see that the fighting had all but ceased and there were only one or two small groups of riders skirmishing on the edges of the battle field. They seemed to be pursuing and harrying a small number of Haradrim warriors who ran before them on foot, but Legolas had no stomach for this relentless rout of Men. There were no Orcs left alive.

The sky was flooded with the red light of the setting sun and it seemed to Legolas that it was on fire, and filled with blood. Before him the field of the Pelennor stretched and the rain- soaked earth was red. A horse stood nearby, its head hanging low and snuffling at the hair of a dead Rohirrim.

He pushed himself up and stood looking away towards the river, away West. Under the great red globe of the setting sun, it seemed the water was red, a river of blood.* It seemed to Legolas to be a sign of the end and a great fall, but he was only a Woodelf and not one of the Wise; he knew it only in the same way he had known that the wind was changing long before it did.

Behind him, where Halbarad had struck it, the great banner of the White Tree flared and snapped in the wind alongside the White Horse of Rohan. 

Suddenly Legolas felt an unbearable loneliness. It was no different from other great battles he had fought in; fighting the Shadow in the southern forest, the Battle of the Five Armies at Erebor, Helm's Deep… He went to look for Gimli and Aragorn and to check that Nestor was unharmed, that Eomer had survived and to find the Hobbits. He needed to speak and listen to another voice, to hold someone, to feel warmth and know that he lived, that others lived and he was not alone in this strange land fighting alongside Men whilst in his own land, Elves were slain.

*Extracts from the ROTK

** This incident referred to is from Deeper than Breathing/ Songs of Rohan for those who have not read it – in Chapter 13 Saruman – Saruman shows Legolas a vision of Mirkwood under siege and Thranduil killed in a similar way to this Orc. Eomer and Aragorn are also there and see the vision.


	13. Many Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is another great piece of artwork on www.esteliel- I cant seem to get it posted here.

Chapter 13: Many Meetings

 

"And so, I missed my chance with one of the lords  
of life."

D. H. Lawrence, Snake

 

Long shadows cast by the setting sun, reached out across the battlefield with its jetsam of war. Elladan paused wearily, and looked about for those he knew. As in the aftermath of all such battles, survivors drifted like him, looking for comrades. A few scavengers scurried between the dead. Already great flocks of carrion crows alighted on the slain; to Elladan they looked like black cinders in the wind.

The wind blew the acrid smoke and fog away, leaving a bright blue, rain-washed sky. In the distance now as the smoke cleared, he could see on a knoll, the White Horse of Rohan fluttering alongside the great banner of Elessar. Men were gathering beneath the growing cloud of standards, green and white, argent and black, gold and blue, they streamed together in the wind.

Wearily he wiped his bloody sword on a tattered pennant trodden into the mud, deep red with a dragon emblazoned on it – some defeated warlord of the South or East, he thought dispassionately. Sheathing his sword, he searched first for Elrohir, and saw his brother's familiar figure leaping over the fallen bodies of slain Orcs to reach Aragorn and pull him into his arms beneath the standard of the White Tree. Both safe, thought Elladan, still alive, still safe.

As he began to pick his way through the dead and debris of battle towards them, he saw that the Rohirrim too gathered about the standards. Eomer was there, the sunlight gleaming on his helm with its white plume flowing, and his hand twitching on the hilt of his sword as if it yet desired more blood. He was gazing out across the plains, brown eyes distant. Many of his riders shuffled nearby, their horses' heads hanging low in weariness. Eomer's own horse nosed about in the churned up turf, snuffling. The new King of Rohan turned slightly when Elladan approached and he nodded in recognition. But his eyes were devastated.

Elrohir turned, frowning, and caught sight of his brother. Elladan lifted his hand in greeting and to assure him all was well but Elrohir gave a cry and strode over to him, enveloping him in his own scent of sweat and leather and the metallic tang of armour and blood.

'You are safe, thank Elbereth,' he said quietly and unashamedly.

Elladan smiled. Elrohir was so much like himself and yet so different; to Elladan, with exhaustion seeping into every muscle and bone, his brother felt bristling with unspent energy, lust. It didn't matter. He was alive. They both were. And Aragorn stood nearby grinning at them. Elladan pulled him into their shared embrace.

'You will never be too old for this,' he said, ruffling Aragorn's hair in careless, exaggerated affection, relief. 'Although perhaps now you are too illustrious,' he added, only half humorously. But he caught something, a slight flickering of fear, saw it in the way Aragorn held himself slightly stiffly, slightly apart. He held the Man away from him a little so he could look at him properly.

Frowning, Elladan caught his foster-brother's chin, pulling him to face him. He smiled gently and threw an affectionate arm around Aragorn's shoulder, leaning in towards him. 'Even though you have vanquished Saruman?' he murmured into the Man's ear. 'Even though you have saved your city from siege? Even though these Men would follow you to their deaths, and you have wrested the Palantir from the Dark One himself? You still doubt yourself? You still fear you are Isildur?' He brushed Aragorn's hair from his eyes. 'Isildur was never as scruffy.'

Aragorn shook his head and pulled away but he too was smiling now. Elladan caught Elrohir watching them and over Aragorn's head they exchanged a look of deep loss and sorrow. They were gradually losing Aragorn. Elladan tried not to look towards the City that would take him away forever.

At the sound of hooves cantering towards them, the brothers turned. Three elegant white horses, long manes streaming in the wind, approached. Their riders carried standards that fluttered above them, a white swan on an azure field. Sunlight flashed on tall spears and gleaming armour as they pulled to a halt, and the tallest rider approached, his proud white horse flicking its full tail and snorting. The rider lifted his helm from his head, and ran a hand through his dark hair, which was not long in the elven fashion but cut mid-length. His eyes though, were piercing blue and sharp.

Here is one, thought Elladan, who surely had elven ancestry.

The rider's compelling gaze brushed over Elladan and the others, then came back to rest upon him. Smiling, the rider inclined his head courteously. Elladan met the sharpness of the eyes with his own smile, feeling himself weighed and judged in that one glance.

'My lords,' said the rider, swinging himself from his horse. Drawing his gauntlet from his hand he extended his arm to Aragorn first. 'I am Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth.' He waved his hand beyond to where riders in blue and white gathered. 'I heard a rumour that the Heir of Isildur rode amongst us. My house has always kept close the faith that the Elves raised and kept safe the Heirs of Isildur though many despaired.' He turned now to the twin sons of Elrond. 'I see that it was true.'

'It is true,' said Aragorn briefly, and he clasped the arm of the Prince. With his other hand, he caught Elladan and brought him forwards. 'These are my brothers.'

Elladan bowed. 'Elladan Elrondion, son of Elrond. I am foster-brother of Aragorn son of Arathorn, Isildur's Heir from ages down,' he said straightening, and as Elrohir made no move to come forwards or bow or make any sort of gesture of respect, he added, 'And this is my tired and grumpy brother, Elrohir.' Elrohir quirked an eyebrow in a startling imitation of their father, but amused, he inclined his head slightly in Imrahil's direction.

The rider looked from one to the other. 'I am honoured indeed, my lords.' He bowed first to Elladan and then rather exaggeratedly to Elrohir, and a smile played about his lips. But then he turned again to Aragorn. 'My lord, my allegiance is yours. Dol Amroth is entirely with you.' And then, in the mud and churned battle field, he knelt before Aragorn, unsheathed his sword and held it out in both hands towards Aragorn. 'My liege,' he said.

Elladan felt a quiet satisfaction at the manner in which his brother received Imrahil's generously offered fealty. Elendil's heir, he thought, not Isildur's.

Aragorn stood a little taller and looking down at the dark head bowed before him he touched the sword lightly and said, 'I count myself fortunate to have such friends as the Men of Dol Amroth and their noble Prince. Do not bow to me though, my lord. Stand with me instead and we will go to the city together.'

Imrahil stood at Aragorn's request and he stood tall as Aragorn, almost as tall as the sons of Elrond, straight as an arrow. He signalled to his Men to dismount also. 'I am yours to command, my lord.'

Aragorn cast a sidelong glance at Imrahil and Eomer, who stood alongside, and then said, 'This City has rested in the charge of the Stewards for many long years, and I fear to enter it unbidden, for doubt and debate may then arise which should not be whilst this war is fought.' He squared his shoulders as if deciding something he had thought long upon. 'I will not enter in nor make any claim until it be seen whether we or Mordor shall prevail.' He looked over the battlefield and then said 'Men shall pitch my tents upon the field and here I will await the welcome of Lord of the City.'

Elladan thought Eomer looked surprised and a little irritated; he felt the red-rawness of the Man's pain. When the Rohan king spoke, it was with an edge in his voice that was exhausted as well as hurt, 'Already you have raised the banner of the Kings and displayed the tokens of Elendil's house. Will you suffer these to be challenged?' Eomer looked ready to fight to the death any who might dare do so.

Imrahil's piercing blue gaze came up and studied Aragorn, who never flinched. Turning away pleased, a smile curved Imrahil's lips as Aragorn put a soothing hand on Eomer's arm. 'No, but I deem the time unripe; and I have no mind for strife except with our Enemy and his servants.'

'Your words, lord, are wise. If one who is a kinsman of Denethor may counsel you in this matter?' Imrahil asked with an enquiring tilt of his head. Elladan already thought Imrahil a generous and intelligent Man, but his next words bespoke also delicacy, subtlety and craft. When Aragorn nodded, he continued, folding his hands together lightly in the manner of a scholar. 'Denethor is strong-willed and proud but old; and his mood has been strange since his son was stricken down.'

Elladan remembered with a slight shock, that Denethor was Boromir's father then and would have only just received the news that Boromir was dead, and that Aragorn- his supplanter- had been with him at the time. He winced. That would be hard to bear for even a generous Man.

'And yet,' Imrahil turned and looked out across the strewn battlefield, with some distress on his fair face, for Elladan noted that he possessed that strong beauty that rare Men sometimes possessed, 'I would not have you remain like a beggar at the door.'

'Not a beggar,' said Aragorn proudly. 'Say a captain of the Rangers who are unused to houses and cities of stone.'*

He lifted his hands to his brow and slowly, lifted the star of Elendil from his brow. He stared at it for a long moment and then murmured almost too quietly for any to hear, 'I wore this for you, my friend. I will not put it on again except to avenge you.' Turning to Elrohir and with one hand on his brother's shoulder, he gave in the other hand the Star. 'Keep it for me. Keep it in remembrance of Halbarad whom I will not forget.'

Elrohir bowed his head slightly and looked away. 'Nor I. He will live on in our hearts and be remembered on this day to the ending of the world.'

So stood the great lords, Princes and Kings on the Plains of the Pelennor Fields, Aragorn, Eomer, Imrahil, and the Sons of Elrond standing close together. Elladan looked about for the last unassuming Prince who would not be a Prince, and saw him striding towards them, his great bow shouldered and his empty quiver hanging loosely from his hand. He looked down as he picked his way towards them and only glanced up occasionally to scan the sky as if nervous that the Nazgul might return. It seemed to Elladan that he was not the only one to watch the approach of Legolas. Beside him, the new King of the Mark gazed avidly at Legolas' approach, reminding Elladan of a falcon bursting to leave the glove and fly free.

Legolas had stopped and was greeting a Man sitting still beside the great standard. The Man looked up at Legolas and replied but they were too far away for any to hear their words. Elladan realised it was Baelderon who sat there, deep in grief, for Cordobad had been killed along with Halbarad. It would be Cordobad's sword the Man rested on his knees. The wind ruffled his dark hair slightly, and then, as the Elf crouched before him, the same wind trailed its fingers through the Elf's pale wheatgrass hair. Elladan could not hear what Legolas said but he watched as the Elf looked down at the notched sword and slowly, reached out and touched the sword, lightly tracing the runes with his fingers. He lifted his strange green eyes to the Man's, said something more, and then stood again.

Elladan felt a stir in the air beside him and realised that Eomer was already striding towards Legolas. The sun sinking behind them, gilded Eomer's copper hair and Legolas looked up, eyes narrowed against the glare of the setting sun.

Elladan heard Eomer hail Legolas and Legolas seemed to stop dead. Elladan's heart caught at the warmth in his blinding smile. But it was not for him. It was for Eomer. He tried not to feel anything when the Man caught Legolas' arms, tried to squash the emotion that surged through him, but it was hard. Eomer spoke earnestly to Legolas, and slowly, his smile faltered and his hands fell to his sides. Still too far away, Elladan could not hear what he said, but he knew Eomer was telling Legolas of the deaths of his uncle, the king, and Eowyn, his sister. He tried to look away but could not. In the corner of his eye, he could glimpse Elrohir watching too, the wind tugging at his sable cloak, his raven hair.

Legolas pulled the Man close and held him in his arms and Elladan knew he should not begrudge Eomer the comfort. But he did. And he could not help but wonder what had gone on before. He had heard whispers, of course, but he had not listened as avidly as his brother. He glanced across to where Elrohir stood, just as Legolas stroked his fingers so tenderly across Eomer's face. Elladan saw his brother flinch but neither of them, it seemed, could tear his eyes away.

Elladan rubbed his hand over his eyes for a moment, trying to erase the image, still so fresh in his own memory, of Elrohir leaning over Legolas, the scent of his musk heavy in the air, the torn cloth and the shameful denials...He shook his head once, twice, as if trying to shake loose the memory. But something had changed since then. He could not think why but Legolas himself seemed furious with them both and Elladan could only think that their deception had been discovered; he had found out, somehow, that the twin who had brought him to the SeaSong and healed him had been sent away, and it was the other twin, Elladan, he had awoken to find watching over him. Elladan sighed and cringed, he had made it so much more difficult with the pretence. Because he had not expected to feel this way; since that night when Legolas had kissed him, Elladan had thought how it would feel, how it would be in the Woodelf's arms. But suddenly, on the night that Nestor had been injured and Elrohir had joined the ship, he had changed. He had become distant, furious.

Elladan looked back to where Elrohir stood, head bowed as if in physical pain… had something else happened that he did not know about? Had Elrohir tried something else? Elladan felt his fists clench in helpless anger; anger that Elrohir was so uncontrolled and helpless because he loved his brother and could not find a way to help him.

Elladan looked back to where Eomer and Legolas stood. Deep copper and pale gold, they stood closer than men normally would and he saw the truth of it. Too late. He was too late. They were, or had been lovers. He felt a pang of grief that he would not have something he never knew he wanted until a few days ago. He had missed his chance. But when he looked back at his brother, he saw in Elrohir's face utter despair.

xoxoxox

Legolas squinted against the setting sun. Silhouetted against the red sky a broad-shouldered warrior strode towards him, his armour gleaming golden and from the helm on his head, a long white plume streamed, tangling with copper-gold hair. Legolas paused to watch his approach, shading his eyes with his long hand and wondering who it was that approached so swiftly, so determined and sure. As he drew close, the warrior lifted his helm from his head and carried it beneath his arm, his copper gold hair fell about his broad shoulders.

Legolas felt his heart beat a little faster and he smiled.

Eomer.

Reaching out to grasp the Man, he began to pull Eomer close into an embrace but something in the brown eyes stopped him. Eomer was speaking, had been speaking as he drew near but the Man seemed unable to get the words out.

He heard him speak Théoden's name and Eowyn's, but the rest was a choking incomprehensible groan. Legolas clasped Eomer's hands, his arms, suddenly afraid of what he might hear.

'Théoden.' Eomer clung to the Elf, and Legolas felt suddenly afraid for what he might hear. 'The King…' His brown eyes fastened on Legolas uncomprehendingly. 'He is dead.'

Legolas gripped the Man's arms, unable to speak for a moment. 'Dead?' he heard himself say stupidly and when Eomer nodded he had wanted to look away but could not. 'How? He was slain in battle…?' he realised and looked away briefly. 'It was always…for all of us.' He knew he was making no more sense than Eomer and a distant part of him wondered why he was so surprised. It was always likely. And Théoden would have wanted to die in battle, gloriously, leading a charge. He hoped that was how it had been, not some dreadful, ignoble death… an image of a still warm body hoisted high seeped into his thoughts for a second and he wrenched himself back to the present. That was a lie. That terrible image was Saruman's lie, he told himself.

Eomer was calmer, beginning to breathe more slowly. 'He was slain. By the Lord of the Nazgul.

Legolas gasped and held Eomer's arm more tightly but he could not speak, only nodded that he understood, for his own heart crumpled beneath doubt about his own beloved King. The King was dead. Théoden of Rohan. Perhaps so too was Thranduil.

But Eomer's eyes were bright with tears. 'That is not all…'

Legolas gripped his arm and lifted his face so he could look at him, though he did so with growing fear.

Eomer shook his head, 'No. No. It is worse… please. I can hardly bear it.'

Legolas froze. He could think of nothing worse for Eomer unless…

'Eowyn…?.' His question trailed away when he saw Eomer's frightened, bereft face. Suddenly he wanted to close his eyes and walk away, away from this battle field, away from this dreadful war. But Eomer's tears spilled from his eyes now and he could not abandon him. 'She is dead.'

Legolas did the only thing he could; he pulled the Man to him and held him close while his body shuddered with grief. He himself could hardly believe it… how was Eowyn dead? How could she, so alive and vibrant and with such hope, be in the cold grave?

The first time he had seen her, standing on the steps of Meduseld, cold and bright like burnished steel, her white gown had billowed in the wind and flattened around her form, curving round her breasts and belly, her girdle about her hips, accentuating, drawing the eye. Proud and defiant she gazed across the steppe, her long golden hair streamed behind her. And she met his gaze and held him…He could see her now, as if he were looking at her.

'When?' he asked, barely believing it, certain he had not heard correctly. He recalled that night he had stolen into her room to ask again for her help in defeating Grima, and she had held a steel blade against his heart and he had laughed and flexed the light steel, and gently mocked her, running his finger along the blade, and had said quietly, 'It is sharp I will give you, but I think you would not have skewered me with this.' **

'She was killed by the Nazgul, standing with Théoden.'

He stared at Eomer, trying to make sense of what he was being told. How could she be with Théoden? He had been killed by the Lord of Angmar.

Then he understood…She had ridden with Théoden. She had refused to stay at home. He cursed himself for his stupidity. He should have known. Had she not blazed like a wildfire, with that intensity and said to him 'I will NOT have that other destiny! I will not wait for the men folk, and sew and sigh and wait until my life is over! I will not!' And the defiance in her eyes had made him waver then. He had listened to her, taken her with him to confront Grima and she had not faltered even though he had himself. **

'Ah.' It was more an exhalation of breath. He had told her he did not see for her the life she had envisaged. He had never seen her as she feared to be, at home, waiting for the Men to return and always waiting… now he knew why. This had been it...

Legolas lifted his hand and gently stroked the Man's tear-stained cheek. Eomer looked up, his brown eyes devastated and bereft. 'I failed her.'

Legolas could find no words to comfort him. He struggled to accept it himself, needed to see her... her song still resonated...

Over Eomer's shoulder, Legolas looked up towards the gathering of Men beneath the crowd of fluttering, streaming pennants and standards. Aragorn's great banner towered above them all, the White Tree glittering and the stars seemed to shine with their own light. The sons of Elrond stood near Aragorn but their grey eyes were on Legolas. He shifted uncomfortably but he did not really know why; their scrutiny was too intense.

He told himself he was protecting Eomer when he gently pushed at the man and said softly, 'Let us go to where Eowyn now lies and see that she is given the honour that she is due. And your Men look to you for comfort.' He lifted Eomer's devastated face and smiled at him with immense tenderness. 'You are King now.'

Eomer looked down and mumbled quietly, 'I don't feel like one.'

Legolas laughed softly, but his eyes were sad. 'You don't look like one with all that snot running down your face.' He drew a finger down the Man's cheek lightly. 'Wipe your eyes here in the quiet and then return proudly to lead Rohan in victory. You have avenged your dead. And perhaps…' his eyes grew opaque and he drifted for a moment, listening to the Song, far off and unchanged in spite of Eowyn's death. He wondered what it meant and said, 'Everything is not always as it seems.'

He placed his hand on the Man's shoulder and steered him back towards the waiting group.

There seemed to be some excitement amongst the Rohirrim and one strode forwards, catching at Eomer's arms and his face was excited, hopeful. Legolas recognised him as Hama, the door warden of Meduseld.

'My lord…King,' he stumbled and although he flushed at his mistake, there was such excitement in his eyes that Legolas stopped dead. 'Prince Imrahil has news you must hear!' In his excitement, Hama forgot again that Eomer was now his king and caught at his elbow, pulling him forwards.

Legolas' eyes went past Hama to a tall Man, handsome and with shoulder-length dark hair. He had a look of Aragorn about him but his eyes were the most piercing blue Legolas had ever seen on a Man and he recognised this Man had Elven ancestry. His song was strong and clear and … he shivered…the soft sough of wind-filled sails, and the breath of the Sea was in his song…

Imrahil of Dol Amroth glanced quickly from Eomer to Legolas and paused only for a moment when he looked at the Wood Elf. Then his attention went back to the desperate Man before him. He grasped Eomer's broad shoulder and said, 'The Lady Eowyn was yet living when they bore her hither. Did you not know?'*

The hope unlooked for came so suddenly to Eomer's heart, and the bite of care and fear renewed*. He said no more but turned and looked once at Legolas. Legolas shared the look of hope and joy and fear mingled, he nodded once and simply let the Man go. Eomer went swiftly to his horse and mounted and began to give orders to his gathered warriors to prepare for his immediate departure for the city.

Forgotten, Legolas stood on the edge of the crowd of Men now as they prepared to ride into the city. He stood alone on the great knoll then for all the world a simple bystander and unconnected. He watched Aragorn order his Men and assemble them ready to return to the city walls, giving orders and quickly talking with Eomer and Imrahil. A light smile on his lips, Legolas turned, wondering why Gimli had not greeted him yet. He scanned the Rohirrim where he most expected the Dwarf to be, but he was not amongst them. Nor was he amongst the Dúnedain, who even now in victory were quiet and serious. With increasing concern he strained to see over the heads of the gathered Men but still no Gimli.

Aragorn had mounted a bay horse and now caught sight of Legolas' anxious, increasingly panicked movements. He looked around, catching Legolas' eye. They exchanged a worried look and Aragorn called over the heads of the gathered troops, 'Where is Gimli?'

'I thought he was with you,' said Legolas.

'I thought he was with you,' replied Aragorn.

Legolas smoothed his hand over his hair anxiously and pushed through the gathered Men to Aragorn. He looked up at Aragon, putting his long hand on the horse's shoulder to still its nervous movements. 'Last time I saw him was when the Nazgul attacked me,' he told Aragorn.

'The Nazgul attacked you?' asked the Ranger.

'I shot their steeds,' said Legolas.

Aragorn nodded matter of factly. 'Good,' he said. 'But I have not seen Gimli since he slew the cave troll.'

'He slew a cave troll?

'Yes- it was about to crush me,' replied Aragorn.

Legolas smiled tightly. 'He has his uses.'

They stopped and looked at one another.

'I will go and look for him.'

Aragorn nodded. 'Send me word as soon as you find him... I would not lose him.' They looked at each other, reading each other's unspoken concern.

'Nor I.' They held each other's hearts in that gaze, for so close they had grown, even though Aragorn had relied on his own folk once the Grey Company joined them. It did not matter now. Nothing mattered but that one of their own fellowship was missing: the Dwarf they both loved. 'No, I would not lose him now. Not for all the world.'

He glanced back once. Aragorn had turned away and the lords and princes were preparing to ride for the city. The sons of Elrond had not moved though. They stood under the banners and standards that streamed together beneath the wide blue sky. The setting sun glinted on the steel of their swords and elvish armour, the wind lifting their long black hair and sable cloaks and their grey eyes watching him impassively. Like stone, he thought. Like stone that felt nothing. He threw his own steely glance at them and then turned away.

xoxo

Long he searched, striding over the enormous fields of the Pelennor, scanning the ground for a notched axe, a battered helm, chainmail ripped and bloody… a square, clever hand reaching. But there was no sign of the Dwarf. The battlefield that only moments ago it seemed, had rung with the sounds of Mumakil thundering, trumpeting, steel clashing on steel, Orcs horrible shouts and yammering, and the Nazgul shrieking – now everything was deathly silent. The snap of a torn banner in the wind, a low groan from some dying creature and across the battlefield, sometimes a name shouted by someone searching as he, for a loved one. He grew more frantic, lifting shields and banners, lying on the ground to listen for the sound of a fluttering breath, a chime of steel and the song of fire and furnace. Nothing. Nothing.

As he searched, he came across the winged steed he had brought down himself and shuddered at its great blunt head, unformed and reptilian.

Hours later in the darkening evening, he found the mangled iron remains of the Lord of the Nazgul, its own great winged steed dead. Théoden's white horse lay beneath the creature, white mane stained with blood. On the ground nearby, was a small helm, like it had rolled off some warrior's head, but it was too small to be any Man's, and he breathed with relief when he saw it was not the crafted metal helm that Gimli wore. Too small even for a woman's so it was not Eowyn's. He picked it up and held it in his hands, looking down at the bronze inlay, the Rohirric patterning. He dropped the small helm, thinking on it no more.

Shadows grew longer and reached out to him. The sun was low in the red sky. But he had still not found Gimli. A strange sense of panic seized him.

Silence on the battlefield now and stars pricked out in the sky one by one. Except for the crack-crack of carrion crows there was only the sound of the wind. After the long, long years of fighting he thought he had grown immune to the silent aftermath of battle, but here in this strange country where there were no trees, no forest glades or grey rivers tumbling over granite boulders amongst the ferns, he felt the silence and smell of blood and oily stink of death grip him. He fought it down. He was centuries old. He had fought countless skirmishes and battles. And yet the loss of one Naugrim was unravelling him.

Perhaps Gimli had taken the chance to find Pippin and Gandalf, he told himself. For Merry was still in Meduseld, he thought. Even now, the three of them were probably curled up somewhere safe with smoke curling from their nostrils and wiggling their toes near a fire. He paused when he saw again the Nazgul's winged beast that had fallen to his arrows. Not even the crows picked at it, but he knew he was covering the same ground over and over. He turned towards the city walls where tents had sprung up, and with long strides made his way to the white city. Boromir's city. Aragorn's city.

Torches and campfires lined the tracks between tents and formed their own strange itinerant town. He guessed these would be for the wounded and the soldiers who could not be barracked within the city walls. His long legs covered the ground quickly, and he was spurred on by growing doubt. Surely Gimli would have been searching for him too if he were able?

Here the ground was even more churned and muddy, for beneath the darkening sky, carts and horses were busy pulling debris away or bringing supplies, and Men shouted to each other. Some stared at Legolas as he passed for they had never seen one of the Firstborn before although they had heard a rumour that an Elf came with the Heir of Isildur. The worn soles of his boots slipped on the mud even though he stepped lightly and he felt sympathy for the draft horses that strained and struggled to pull the great carts through the mud.

Skimming the faces before him, he searched for the Dwarf, pulling wide tent flaps to peer anxiously within, muttering apologies to the healers who were too busy to attend him, and to the ashen-faced wounded for whom he could do nothing anyway.

xox

It was late. The moon had risen in the sky and stars scattered. He pinched his nose with his forefinger and thumb in a mannerism that was unmistakably Thranduil's had he realised it, and tried to quell the hammering and fear in his heart. He had not found anyone who had seen Gimli fall although he had news that both Hobbits were in the city. He suspected a tale similar to Eowyn's to explain how Merry had come to be there. But it was good that they were both safe. And he had not been told by anyone that the Dwarf was injured. And that too was good. So he must assume the Dwarf was alive. And well. And just needed to be found. And to do that, he had to think like a Dwarf….

…Then he smiled tightly at the absurdity of it. Once he considered it, it was obvious.

He caught the sleeve of one of the victuallers as his cart went trundling past, laden with food for the hungry soldiers. 'Where can I find pipeweed and ale?' he asked urgently.

The victualler nodded his head back along the route Legolas had come. 'Rohan camp probably best. Surprised you can't hear 'em from here, my lord,' he said good-naturedly. 'They're a rowdy lot compared with Dol Amroth.'

Legolas smiled and the victualler stared a little but Legolas had already whirled away and his long stride took him swiftly to the tents of the Rohirrim. He paused to smell the air. No doubt about it. Pipeweed and iron. And he listened carefully… his head tilted slightly to one side. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. There… a rich, deep sound… hammers chiming on rock far, far below ground, a plink of a drop of water on lakes undisturbed for centuries, slow, slow shifting creak of the Earth, the flare and roar of the furnace, of fire, deep chanting under far mountains, the strike of metal on stone…Gimli.

xoxox

Gimli knew exactly the moment that Legolas had slipped quietly into the tent. He did not know how he knew; it just seemed to him that there was a subtle shift in the air and a scent of woods in the rain. He grinned secretly to himself with immense self-satisfaction. He was comfortably ensconced on a bench amid a beautiful fug of pipeweed and ale fumes, and before him was a plate of red meat and a tankard of ale that spilled over his fingers. He was surrounded by his favourite folk, so he had decided. The Rohirrim were like Dwarves –though rough and unlettered compared with the secret knowledge and hidden ways of Khazad - but akin to his folk in their love of life and their vibrancy. He smoothed his hand over his beard, enjoying the sensuous silk of it. He thought of the bath he would soon have and the scented oils he would smooth into his beard. He would be sure to polish his armour too, and find a nice little forge somewhere to heat the iron and get the smell of blood out of his hair and clothes, let his hands feel the obedience of metal and of fire.

He had placed his helm on the bench to one side of him and propped his great axe reverently against the other side, sated and still now that it had drunk so much blood. He nodded at the Rohirrim opposite him and wondered why he looked so anxious. The Rohirrim warrior's worried eyes were not looking at Gimli though but a spot above him and to the left so he knew then that Legolas stood behind him and was not happy.

Gimli grinned even more broadly. It was not often he bested the Elf in such an overwhelmingly superior way. He intended to enjoy it.

He let out a loud belch to emphasise how much he had drunk. To those others present, it might seem that Gimli alone had not noticed the seething, frantic energy that was his mislaid friend. But they could not know that he could almost feel the hard Elven stare burrowing its way into his own back. He laughed gleefully and banged the tankard down as noisily as he could, spilling ale over his hands. With one hand he tore a chunk of bread from a hard loaf nearby and with the other he grabbed a shanks bone from the huge platter of meat on the table before him and without looking, waved it overhead.

'Hah! Legolas!' he shouted, almost knocking Legolas in the face. 'This is what we needed! I knew I was missing something but I could not place it. We've been either bobbing around on that blasted boat or bobbing around on that blasted horse, no offence meant,' he added hastily to his neighbours. They waved away his remark, more concerned it seemed about the Elven warrior's tight-lipped fury. 'I have missed red meat and good ale!'

'Did you miss anything else?' asked the Elf, too smoothly, ducking the shanks bone. 'You have not missed for company whilst you have been sitting here and eating everything in Minas Tirith? Have you been sitting here all this time? Whilst I have been out searching the dead for you?'

'I knew you'd work it out eventually,' Gimli smirked proudly. He patted Legolas on the arm and pulled him to sit down.

'What?' Cold. Steel.

Ah, thought Gimli warily and he gave the Elf a quick sidelong glance. Have I overplayed it? He decided he didn't care and would enjoy it anyway. What was Legolas going to do anyway? He knew the Elf would rather cut off his own arm than harm a hair on Gimli's head.

'I knew you would work it out eventually.' He spoke as if he were speaking to someone very dull and slow. 'You have been searching for me, have you not?' He grinned smugly. 'I knew that eventually, eventually mind you,' he gave Legolas an even smugger look, 'you would work out where to find a Dwarf. And here I am.' Gimli waved his hand carelessly. 'Of course Aragorn did not think you would.'

'Aragorn?' Even lower. Even colder. Even steelier. Gimli still didn't care. He was just so pleased to see Legolas that he could hug him… maybe not hug him. After all, plenty of other folk wanted to hug Legolas. He could not see the attraction. Too tall. Too skinny. Too … not weak. Oh no, not weak… unlike this ale. But Gimli realised just then that it was stronger than he had thought. Thorin's hairy balls! Had he been considering hugging the Elf?

Gimli waved the shanks bone around again and still chewing said lightly. 'Where was I?'

'Aragorn.' Even Gimli thought Legolas' smile looked a little strained and he thought he might be grinding his teeth … that was never a good sign. Yes, he looked more closely. The Elf looked definitely strained.

'Oh yes. He was here with all the fine folk. Said you were looking for me and he would send someone to fetch you. I told him no need, you would work it out. He said he did not think you would!' The Dwarf said, angry on Legolas' behalf that Aragorn could think so poorly of the Elf. He grinned widely and slammed his fist down on the thin plank table. 'And you see! I was right! He said you would panic and run round and round in circles… well he did not quite say it like that but he did not have the faith in you that I have. He wagered you would not guess where I was! And here you are!' Gimli declared triumphantly. 'So I think he owes me a pouch of the best Longbottom leaf.'

There was a silence. Silence in which Gimli thought he could definitely hear the sound of teeth grinding.

'Well you have won, my friend,' said the Elf, far far too smoothly, snagging a wooden board and piling meat and bread on it. 'I worked it out, as you say, eventually. And you should demand your payment as soon as you see Aragorn. He is the king now and should be able to command only the best leaf.' Legolas tore the bread up, shoved slices of meat between the bread and began to eat.

Gimli frowned. Legolas really did sound upset. And suddenly he knew that Legolas had been worried. Scared even. And although Legolas had worked it out, he had said he had searched long. Gimli remembered that time in Edoras when he and Aragorn had given him the news that the Hobbits were safe and Gandalf returned. Legolas had tried to believe them. But he could not. And now, when he saw the Elf's hand creeping up to clutch at the fabric of his stained tunic above his heart, Gimli recognised the gesture and winced.

'I am mightily glad to see your skin whole,' he said suddenly and put his hand on Legolas arm, as much to stop that nervous clutching as anything.

Legolas looked down at the Dwarf's square, clever hand. He chewed slowly and swallowed. 'When I was searching for your cold, dead body beneath the rotting corpses of Mumakil and Orcs,' he said conversationally, 'I realised something, oh Khazâd vuinen.' Gimli met his green eyes; they were no longer strange to him, but as familiar as his own, more so perhaps for he had looked on them, into them and with them for many months now and had grown to trust them as much as his own.

'If you died, Angren-pau,' Legolas said slowly, looking intensely into the deep eyes of the Dwarf, 'I would miss your song, and the warmth of you at my back, and the hiss of your axe as it hewed the necks of many Orcs. And I found I could not bear it.'

He looked away and Gimli felt sure he saw something glisten at the corner of those familiar green eyes. Instead he seemed to shake himself slightly. 'Now I am done,' he said and set to eating with a hearty relish. 'By the way,' he said with his mouth full of meat and bread, 'if you or Aragorn ever wager upon me again, if you ever…and I mean ever do that again, I will find you and half-drown you in a barrel of ale. Then I will fish you out to ride with you bouncing at my back to Erebor and back. Oh,' he held up his hand, 'I have not finished. Then I will piss on all your pipeweed and not tell you. Oh, and Aragorn' he continued, nodding to himself, 'I haven't even started on Aragorn…'

TBC

* -ROTK

** -Deeper than Breathing (first fic)

Khazâd vuinen – Beloved Dwarf

Angren-pau – Iron Fist   
\-----------------------------------------

Chapter End Notes:


	14. Rávëyon

Chapter 14: Rávëyon 

 

Legolas could not sleep. It was always like this after battle, he was twitchy and highly strung. It was after the battle at Linhir that he and Elrohir had fought. Staring up at the canvas roof of the tent he and Gimli shared, Legolas listened to Gimli's breathing and soft snores. But it was not comforting or soothing.

He rubbed his eyes again, wanting to rest, to follow the dream-paths that would not settle and let him follow. Instead, his thoughts drifted to the Sea, and he did not wish to go there, or rather- he did want to go there… but it was too attractive, too easy to drift into a sleep from which he feared he would not awaken…He shook his head and breathed out. It would not do to let himself slide into the soft blue depths, with seabirds crying above and the whisper and sough of waves around him.

Instead his thoughts drifted to Elrohir. He felt he had missed something but he cringed at the humiliation he had suffered at the hands of the brothers, at his own stupidity. He shook his head to free himself of the heat that crept up his neck and face and sighed heavily, turning in the narrow cot that was his bed. It was too short and his feet dangled uncomfortably over the edge, and it was not wide enough to curl up.

It was the battle, he told himself. That was what made him restless. It still sang in his blood. Battle-hard muscles rehearsed the leaps and slashing blows, his hands twitched to replay the constant draw and release of his great bow, and although the Dwarf slept soundly, it seemed that he could not, nerves jangling, strung out until he felt stretched, thin. He was reminded for a moment of Frodo, for that was how the Hobbit had once described to Legolas the effect of carrying the Ring.

He sighed and offered up a prayer to the Star-Kindler to light their way, hoping against all good sense that Sam and Frodo were still alive, still safe. He pushed his feet over the edge of the cot and wriggled his toes a little, thinking about the glad news that at least two of the Hobbits were safe with Gandalf. And Eomer was here.

He smiled to himself, remembering the Man's delight at seeing him, the promise in his eyes. Letting his hand trail down his own body, he recalled with perfect Elven clarity the warm caresses, the heavy, exotic flesh, the difference that was a Man. But although his hand moved on his own body, tracing the touches of his Rohirrim lover, his thoughts drifted treacherously from the copper-gold hair and lingered on the memory of lamplight on long, raven-black hair. And he was drawn back over and over to a memory, not of the yearning adoration in Eomer's brown eyes but by the intensity of a grey gaze that pierced him through with furious lust.

He shied away from this and pulled himself back to the sweet memory of Eomer; a grey cloak hurriedly spread over a pile of sacks, hands sweeping over the Man's strong shoulders, his back, his muscular flanks, a passionate kiss, hard, unyielding coupling. With Eomer, gentleness and quiet had followed and he treasured the intimate quiet sharing.

After a few useless moments where his mind would not settle and he achieved nothing but frustration, he let his hand fall back to his side and pushed his head against the pillow. It was no good.

He wanted to think about Elrohir. Elrohir! Who hated him! And, he grimaced and put his hands over his face, whom he had tried to seduce, and been rebuffed. Firmly. It happened rarely. Again, heat flooded his face, his neck. They had deliberately conspired to mock him, Elladan, he knew now, had been the one who had left the cramped cabin, furious and barely glancing at Legolas, and Legolas had seen only disdain…

He thought on that for a moment and paused… Had it really been disdain? What had made him think that? Just the fury in the other Elf's eyes, the way his steel grey gaze had simply brushed over him. And yet, Elladan had been willing to succumb to him only an hour before… Perhaps he had simply found his good Noldo sense and recovered? Perhaps his brother had reminded him of their great and weighty heritage and that had stopped him from dallying with a nobody from Mirkwood…

He grinned wryly and scolded himself for his arrogance. Surely he was old enough to know that the world did not revolve around him, that everyone was not thinking about him all the time.

Fool! Why did Elladan's fury have to be about you? It could have been anything- they are brothers, he thought with a sudden pang, they could be arguing over anything! Of course Elladan did not seek to mock you. … And Elrohir… well, Elrohir was an enigma.

Legolas clasped his hands behind his head and listened to the sounds of the night; the soft voices of the Dúnedain in the next tent, the hurrumph of a horse tethered nearby… the trundle and creak of carts moving the dead, clearing the detritus of battle. Gimli turned and snuffled into his pillow.

Elrohir had not laughed at Legolas. If anything … Legolas frowned. If anything….he had been… passionate…How could that be? There had been no mistaking his own intention to seduce the other Elf. And that Elf who had had a knife at his throat only days before, had rebuffed him gently, firmly… even regretfully…

'It is not me you want…' Elrohir had said gently pushing Legolas away and Legolas finding the resistance exciting, thinking still of the lingering, smouldering, yearning kiss he had from Elladan before, had pushed himself against the other Elf… Elrohir…

'Let me show you how much I don't want you,' Legolas had pressed Elrohir back against the thin timber wall and licked lazily down his mouth to his throat, traced the rounded tip of his ear. Wanting him, wanting him to respond, and still listening for the long notes of Elladan's song, like moonlight, like petals floating on still pools. Instead he found a hot red glow and fiery power, still vibrating from the fight to win Nestor back for the living… a fierce, pounding rhythm of fire and red leaping flames, an angry burning and longing…it was the song of the sword and of war. It had struck Legolas at the time, the difference, but he had thought it was because….because… Elladan as he had thought, had been deep in the healing of Nestor. But now, as Legolas gazed upwards, he wondered now if he were being truthful with himself…

He sighed heavily and Gimli rolled over, muttering and chewing his beard a little. Legolas reached over to the sleeping Dwarf, moving his hand away from his beard and gently pressing the clever blunt fingers that could smooth steel like it was linen. Gimli drew a breath, sighed and settled. And Legolas went back to his thoughts which circled inwards and inwards and he knew he was coming to the heart of it…the canvas roof fluttered slightly in the wind and he smelt the salt, ah, it called him and his heart felt a tug, like he was going home…But he thrust it away, forced himself back to Elrohir, his long black hair, so black it was blue, the candlelight lingering on it like a caress…

Legolas started.

Where had that come from?

It was there then. Legolas sighed. He had known deep down in his blood and bones… when he smoothed his long fingers against Elrohir's heart, tracing a circle over his breast and said, 'You called my name.' And a memory, submerged and lost beneath the dizzy softness of sere-vanda struggled to emerge… when he himself was injured….of hands tracing the runes of his name, it had called to him…No, summoned, commanded him. And he had simply obeyed.

With a start, he blinked. And stared up at the canvas roof. It had been Elrohir who had healed him….the passion and fire that had called him back too… why had he not noticed it?

Now he knew. Unblinking, Legolas went over again what had happened, he wanted to be sure, to straighten it out in his own mind…He had believed it was Elladan had called him from cuivëar… but it was not. Instead it was Elrohir who had called him, with his fire and passion and rage. But when Legolas had led Elrohir from Nestor's sick bed, and believing it was Elladan, pressed against him in that small cramped space smelling of sea salt and tar, Elrohir had said 'It is not me you want.'

Ah, but Legolas had. He had felt a thrum along his nerves and veins full of fire, like felt when he was in battle. He had stepped closer to Elrohir, believing it was Elladan who had called him, Elladan who had healed him… believing it was Elladan he wanted… expecting Elladan's song. Instead he had found an answer to his own wild desire. Not moonlight on pools, but that fierce, red battle-song. Then the other Elf…Elrohir, had grabbed Legolas' head and pushed back with his tongue, desire throbbed and overwhelmed him so it was Legolas now pressed back against the wall. He felt Elrohir's tongue hot and wanting to fill him, Elrohir's fists clasped Legolas' tunic and pushed down on him, forcing him to open, to submit… And Legolas, wide-eyed now and staring unseeing at canvas that fluttered in the wind, remembered his own excitement at the strength and power of this Elf…Not Elladan. Not the gentler blue energy, the moonlight touched with petals, but the fire and energy and power of Elrohir. He felt his mouth dry and licked his lips nervously.

When he had cried 'Ai, Elladan…' that was the moment that Elrohir had stopped. 'It is not me you want!' he had said. And in the same moment Legolas himself had recognised the dark gem that flashed in the dim light, and his own long fingers drifted to the faint bruise still on his cheek. In the dreadful fight with Elrohir, that hard battle, that bitter fist-fight, undignified, full of fire and hatred and … and… Legolas paused. What else was that fight been about? he asked himself, remembering the dark gem flashing as Elrohir brought his fist down again and again.

Legolas himself had hardly been blameless though, if truth be told. He had drawn first. He had let the other Elf's contempt rile him… and why? He was not unused to it; in his long life there were those he had not liked and who had not liked him. But it was this; few had hated him with such little cause. It was … too personal. And Legolas had gone from admiration to hurt to contempt and shame. And now?

He sighed again and threw his arm over his eyes. He was a fool. But he was his own fool at least and nobody else's. Elladan had not sought to mock him, nor Elrohir. In any of these cases, he told himself sternly, there had been no conspiracy except one of his own foolishness conspiring with his own stupidity.

He realised he was tracing the runes over his heart, stroking the flesh where the Dragon snaked over his torso and entwined, writhed about his thigh. He cast a gaze down to where its iridescent eyes gleamed and with a quirk of his eyebrow said 'What have you seen that I did not, wise one? Have you been laughing at me all this time?'

Quietly shook out his tunic in disgust, deciding to discard it for the moment. He owed the Sons of Elrond an apology at least, for his discourtesy. And he could not rest. He was certain they must be asleep somewhere, but he would find them and make this right. He tightened the laces on his breeches and pulled on his still damp, stained boots.

And Eomer was in the city… He paused. Eomer. It was getting complicated and he suddenly wished he had not thought quite so hard tonight.

He snagged the rather grubby linen shirt he had been wearing and grimaced, but pulled it on nonetheless. It had bloodstains but it was his own blood not Orc blood and would have to do. He rubbed his hand briefly over the soiled bandage across his chest and resisted the urge to look at the wound.

He would not rest now and his nerves were still strung. He rubbed his fingers together, barely registering the familiar pricking in his thumbs. He scooped up his empty quiver, intending to glean arrows, and wondered about taking his bow but then decided not and left it propped against the too short cot. He held the quiver loosely in his hand.

Shoving aside the tent flap, Legolas looked out. Immediately around him were the silent tents of the sleeping Dúnedain. Horses tethered nearby nickered softly at him as he emerged and stood in the quiet darkness under the moon, and there was no sound from the immediate circle of tents. If any were awake they did not disturb their fellows and Legolas wondered if Baelderon wept in silence on his own or if others comforted him.

He stroked the nose of one restless horse, grimacing at the sickening stench of burning meat and cracking skin; beyond the camp, great pits were being dug to bury the dead Orcs and the huge carcasses of Mumakil were dowsed with oil and set light. Flames flared up in the wind that still blew up from the Sea and smoke lay in drifts across the battlefield.

At the city walls he was challenged briefly, unconvincingly by two sentries but they gave him news that the Sons of Elrond were with Aragorn in the Houses of Healing, and then let him pass and take his fill of the arrows that were stored in the gatehouse. He forced himself to pause and stare at the debris, at the huge boulders that had smashed the towers and houses of the lowest level. He climbed the lower levels quickly, determined to give his apology and then make his escape.

In the middle levels of the city, deserted and empty of all, he climbed over rubble to stand upon the ruined city wall and stilled himself to listen. The sky was lit with a red glow from the grisly fires beyond the city walls. The great gate hung on one hinge, smashed and splintered by a huge battering ram that lay discarded beside it now. Beneath the clear night sky, a spring frost dusted the cobblestones and empty houses, the roofs glittered in the moonlight.

Head tilted slightly on one side, he listened. Frost crackled on the stones and high above, star-song chimed metallic and distant. And beneath it all, he heard the pomp that was Gondor. Heard the echo of the ages, of the glory that was Numenor. They had built high and strong, but now so much of the city lay shattered. But in this White City, Aragorn's city, Boromir's city, he almost felt the stones tremble in anticipation of he who walked their streets once more… the Elf leaned forwards slightly, to listen but there … far away, was the rushing sigh of the Sea. The Sea. And he wanted to listen to it, wanted it to wash over him, to take him away from the battle and the blood and the horror of it…He leaned into the wind as he had in Lebennin, letting the soft west wind stroke his skin and trail its fingers through his hair… But this time he knew what it was, and though its siren voice beckoned him towards its soft embrace, he shook his head clear of the dreams… It was a dangerous lover. He could lose himself in its arms forever, never waking; cuivëar. Galadriel's warning echoed…and he knew he had lost his heart forever.

He felt a warmth on his chest and then it chilled. He looked down to see blood had soaked through his linen shirt. That wound had opened again. He touched it lightly with his fingers, puzzled that it seemed not to heal, wondering that the Orc blade wound he had got at Pelargir had healed, and Grima's henchman's sword wound had healed – both quickly and yet this lingered.

Something nibbled away at the edge of his consciousness, something high up and slowly searching… Cold fear crawled down his spine and he rubbed his fingers together to rid them of the prickling, the crawling beneath his skin, nerves on edge. Recognising the sensation this time, he looked up quickly. The Nazgul were abroad still.

As if his thoughts had conjured it, far away in the distance across the empty battlefield, huge leathery wings flapped, and at the edge of his consciousness he felt the malevolence of its searching mind. He turned to stare upwards and eastwards, straining his senses as far as he could … But it was only one Nazgul, spying, he thought, maybe searching, and he thought again of the two small Hobbits making their way alone under the ashen sky, across the dead wastes of Mordor. He pushed the thought away quickly. Don't think. Don't speak of It. Don't think don't speak. But too late. As if the pure simple gold circle that had flickered briefly in his mind were a beacon, it fled towards him.

High above and moving fast, he heard the whoosh of the great wings coming closer. He felt the blunt mind of the beast first, and the hunger of it for flesh. He could see it now, the thin wings stretched out, too high for an arrow shot. It wheeled and swooped over the city, and then back again, lower…He reached back for his bow and remembered with a numbing clarity, he had left it propped uselessly against the narrow cot. He cursed himself and drew his knife in a stupidly futile gesture of resistance. Crouching behind huge fallen block of masonry, he watched as it hunted…for a thought of the Ring, for a lingering thought…he felt its questing search, casting a net wide over the city to see what it snagged on, thoughts of the Ring…

This time the creature seemed to slow. It passed over again, swooping lower this time, almost in bow-range…. He was suddenly very afraid. His fingers fumbled at the knife and it clattered onto the frost-dusted ground and weaponless, he stared upwards, lips parted, eyes wide.

He waited, waited with his heart pounding, because to flee would mean capture and death, waited until the instinct to flee almost undid him and he almost cracked from the fear that threaded its way into his heart, set his nerves on edge. And now he felt his throat stick. He steeled himself, hiding his thoughts, blanking out everything.

Above him, the great winged beast swooped and wheeled slowly, slowly. And then the Nazgul touched the edge of his mind; it had found him.

He felt the Nazgul bend all its malevolence upon him, finding that one thought, that lingering image of the Ring… and relentlessly he was drawn upright, against his will…until he stood defenceless before it. Slowly, defiantly he raised his eyes to the creature that towered over him and his heart quailed at the sight of the ugly blunt head that nosed forwards, its jaws snapping. But he could not move.

The black-shrouded Nazgul that clung to its withers lifted a gauntletted hand. Pain flooded him. It raked one claw through his thoughts, scattering everything, searching for that one stray thought, that one memory that would give it what it needed, one moment of the Ring. Tearing aside everything else, it paused at the thought of Aragorn... but thrust it aside to seize upon his memory of the Ring, the Ring. So simple, such gold, so precious… he leaned towards It and almost thought, almost tasted the ash of Mordor.

Legolas heard a triumphant shriek and hid his face in his hands as if he could prevent the Nazgul from seeing the images that flooded his mind. Then, as if he had no control, the Ring appeared before him, his treacherous perfect Elven memory showed the small hand it rested in and the Nazgul tore into him like carrion, like a spear of ice plunging into his chest, tore into that memory, forcing it open, plundering his thoughts …the Hobbits, Gandalf, Gimli, Aragorn, Moria, the Ring…the Sea… the Sea… he felt its confusion for the Sea called to him as the Ring did his Master…

Suddenly, through the desperate scramble to hide from the rampaging Nazgul, Legolas saw his choice. Starkly. He knew he would be lost, perhaps forever, certainly vulnerable, open for the Nazgul to take him. But the other way was the Fellowship's failure, and he could not allow that. He asked no more of himself than … he stopped. No more thinking. Even now the Nazgul ripped into the hesitation, grasping at his elusive thoughts. He had run out of time…

And gratefully, even knowing he would might never awaken this time, he took a breath and let the Sea flood his mind…the grey water, waves rushed over him, wet black rocks gleaming and the restless Sea, sinking and rising, the rush of the waves... white birds crying on the West wind, tall grey ships and the white towers, the Sea, the Sea

…He did not feel his arms dragged back, held captive, pulling him down, nor felt the tear of stone against his cheek unless it was the pebble beach, the wailing shriek of the Nazgul he only heard as the wailing of the sea birds, white upon the grey shores, the crush of heaviness against him was the waves and a great wind blasted him … but he saw only the white birds, and the Sea restless, sinking and rising, the sighing waves….

The King is dead, he heard himself say in his confusion. He did not know which king he meant and to his shame, there were tears on his cheeks for he had been dreaming of the Sea when the King had died, been slaughtered. He had been listening for the sound of wild horses galloping and the whisper of long grass under the high blue sky… and now there was the Sea when…there should not be…

A stinging blow to his cheek snapped his head round and he blinked.

…. the bell tolled for midnight. Stars wheeled hugely above him in the cold, frost-laden air that came down from the Mountains. Legolas breathed and tried to shake his head, to move, to rid himself of the wisps of dream that clung to him. He lifted his hands to his face and covered his eyes. It was the cuivëar. And he wanted to stay there…sleep… rest where there was no rest..it was easier this way…

… Something had happened when the cuivëar had wrapped him in its soft blue embrace. He had been looking for something…something he had lost and he should not have… He had been listening when the Nazgul came... Yes. It had spoken to him; in his mind he had heard the hissing, twisted voice... it had wanted … offered … his limbs felt heavy and slow. His thoughts were muddled and he wanted to keep on listening to the Sea and forget all else… if he could just stand here and listen to the song…. But there was a stinging blow to his face, and then another, and grey eyes pierced him and a hand was raised again and another stinging blow… but he could not remember why it mattered …

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

It had been a hard time in the healing quarter of the city. Elrohir pushed his hair out of his eyes with his wrist and plunged his hands into the scalding water, welcoming its purifying burn. He felt soiled. And angry that he had lost so many souls this night to Sauron. He had not battled hard enough, not fought for them with enough vigour and command. Too many souls had sought instead the ease of Death. And he rebelled against it.

One concerned look from Elladan had been enough and he knew he was becoming inefficient, his distracted energy overflowed and his hands tingled, trembled as he set the bone in a Rohirrim warrior's arm. He had moved to these lesser injuries, lesser burns, wounds that would not kill. But here his desperate fury had worsened and he knew he was no longer helping. The Man was watching Elrohir warily as he splinted his arm.

'Go. Rest. You need to be in control of it,' said a voice nearby and he looked up to see Aragorn's grey eyes watching him with compassion, concern. He shook his head.

'You need me here. I can see it.'

Aragorn pressed his hand down on Elrohir's shoulder, gentle and insistent. 'I need you to fight for them.' He jerked his head towards the other rooms, where Elladan laboured amongst the dying. 'I need you back in there, with Elladan and me. There are others who can do this. Rest.' A woman orderly pushed past, a steel basin full of metal instruments, and linen bandages unrolling in her arms. She glanced briefly at the two and dipped her eyes.

Elrohir looked back at the Rohirrim warrior whose arm he now bandaged. The Man was not afraid, or in pain he could not bear. Anyone could do this, he admitted.

He finished tying the linen and patted the Man's arm comfortingly, 'There. It will mend quickly. The bone is set but you should not use it for a while. ' He smiled, trying for a hint of mischief that he did not feel. 'No riding for a while.'

The rider's face looked bleak for a moment and he said, 'I have no horse now. She was slain beneath me.' He looked up at Elrohir. 'Saruman's Orcs took my children, and killed my wife. I wish I had been killed and they spared my poor horse.'

Elrohir's hand shook with the sudden surge of anger and violent rage. He gripped the Man's shoulder and stared into his eyes. 'They will be avenged. All of them. Every one of them.'

He could not look at Aragorn but turned swiftly and pushed his way between the women healers and the orderlies who helped them, and found his way to the great oaken doors that led from the quarter into the upper levels of the city. He slipped out into the empty street.

He leaned against the cold stones, heart hammering in his chest, veins full of fire, and breathed.

The air was clear, a frost had drifted on the air from the mountains, dusted over the cobblestones and glass panes of the empty houses. It was a strange contrast that within this one small quarter of the city, there were so many dying, straining to hold onto life, fighting against the pain, blood and pus and excrement, while outside, the stars were hard and bright in a silent, empty city. The people had been sent out of the city to take refuge in the mountains, and none still within the city had yet thought to send word of their victory. If indeed, it was victory, thought Elrohir morosely. He looked up at the star-filled sky, seeing the towers of the city against the night, knowing that this was but a lull in the fight against the dark.

There were places where he could sleep, beds put aside in the Houses of Healing, but he knew he would not rest. He nursed the furious pain that lanced him through and through. He needed to control it, not dull its bright edge, not lose it.

He strode down the silent, moonlit streets, wove his way through the empty city, spiralling downwards, between the ruined houses and towers, past the great stone masonry that had been hurled by Sauron's winged creatures. Breathing in the cold air so it burned through his throat and lungs, he made his way to the middle levels where the great gate lay on one hinge, near the discarded battering ram.

And suddenly there was no moon. The night surged forwards and everything was in darkness. A prickling on his skin, a horror that froze the hair on his scalp made him hesitate and look about him. No ordinary assassin, no Man could make him feel this. The malevolence of a mind sheared against his briefly but it did not seek him.

He looked about warily. The streets were empty and deserted, utterly silent. No shadow moved, no slide of steel. Wind lifted his hair. The gaping darkness of the gate lay ahead of him, the broken-toothed ramparts of the city above him. Silence. Stillness. And yet, he felt an oppressive malevolence, so close it stole his breath.

He glanced up and a dense cloud edged with moonlight obscured the stars…and then it fluttered and everything made sense. No cloud was ever shaped like that. 

Elrohir gasped, fear froze his feet and set his heart hammering in his chest. Nazgul!

Great leathery bat-like wings of Sauron's creature filled the sky – how could it be so quiet, so stealthy? It was rearing up, its ugly blunt head reaching silently forwards to the crumbling ramparts, and the black-shrouded figure that clung to its scaly withers, lifted its heavy iron gauntlet and pointed to the walls.

 

The creature nosed forwards silently, its huge wings merely fluttering, merely stirring the air. It reached towards the ruined city walls, jaws wide and fangs gleaming.

And then he saw what it reached for.

Legolas.

Standing on the high wall, lost and staring upwards at the Nazgul's steed that hovered silently just within reach of him. The fell beast towered above the Elf, and it reared back its head like a snake about to strike.

Elrohir ripped his gaze away and leaped forwards, his sword ringing as he tore it from its sheath. Sudden moonlight burst through and caught on the blade so the mithril runes poured and gleamed molten, his own energy crackled and sparked. He leaped up the stone steps and even as the beast's huge jaws snapped, Elrohir's hand closed on Legolas' tunic and he wrenched him out of the beast's path and shoved him behind the battlements. Legolas did not make a sound, unresisting and in a dream complied.

'Hecal!' Elrohir cried and he held his glittering sword before him. The Nazgul's steed drew back momentarily and then hissed, but did not strike again.

Elrohir stepped out from behind the battlements and stood on the broken-toothed ramparts of the wall. ' Epënyë nacidë minna undumë. Aicanáro!' he cried, defying the Evil One to reach out and take him. The wind from the great beast's wings whipped his hair around his face. Streams of gold mingled with his.

The Nazgul drew back, and Elrohir believed for a moment it shrank before the High Speech. But instead it leaned forwards over the creature's neck and in a low malevolent voice, full of hate, the years and years of hollow, needless cruelty seemed to drip, it sneered.

'You think I will quail before your forgotten tongue! And who are you that you hold that sword?'

Elrohir stood tall and proud and his long raven hair tugged in the wind. 'Nányë Rávëyon!' he declared, the name he was given by the Orcs of the Mountains, for he was their terror and their doom. 'And you know this,' he whirled his sword, two handed, around his head. It flashed like lightning. 'Aicanáro. You have reason to fear it!'

Indeed the Nazgul paused and Elrohir felt its gaze, like thin needles driven into his fingertips, scraping down his nerves, it searched his thoughts and he gasped; he had never felt it before, never known the piercing, icy touch in his thoughts, scattering them, searching…searching. It stripped him and laid him naked before its yellow eyes, raking over his thoughts, his memories, his desires. It saw him, knew him.

Then it laughed. A low hideous grinding of bone and sinew. 'You are too transparent, Rávëyon.'

Elrohir stared , transfixed. Its voice seemed to come from inside himself now, inside his head, insinuating itself into his desires, coiling about his dark secret, knowing him…and was amused.

'You, Rávëyon, are corrupted. Corruptible. My lord would have you in his service if you wished and you could have…' It waved an iron black gauntlet towards Legolas, who still stood with Elrohir, utterly still, silent, transfixed. 'You could have everything you wanted… anything.' Its voice dripped with meaning and the Voice in his own head seemed to unravel images from the dark, it showed him one by one, those things he desired in secret…things he was ashamed of…

…Legolas. Stripped naked and bound in chains. Warm firelight, torchlight washed his skin, the painted swirling runes on his skin; he struggled against his bonds, muscles bunched and straining, long gold hair sweeping down his back, his strong beautiful face, eyes closed against some unseen pain. And Elrohir then, approaching him, hand drifting over the muscular lean chest, drifting down to the lean hips and fondling his sex. Legolas writhing in agony and lust, in his power, absolutely in his power to do with as he pleased. He saw himself, fist wrapped by Legolas' long hair and he pulled Legolas' head back, felt the dark lust fill him. Its hunger knew no bounds…

'You can have him.' The Voice whispered, coiling itself pleasurably around his darkness, incubating it, nurturing the darkness. It showed him Legolas sprawled before him in disgraceful abandon, his own hands drifting over his body and pleading with Elrohir to be taken violently. 'You can have him serve you…please you. He could be your slave…' And Elrohir… Elrohir shuddered and gasped.

He suddenly realised he had gripped Legolas by his arms, was staring at him, and the hunger of his lust had filled him. He pushed his hard sex against the Elf… Cold air beat against his skin and he remembered the Nazgul. His scalp tingled in horror that it had so easily beguiled him.

'Why do you fight me?' the Voice whispered. It was no longer the Nazgul but its Master he could hear. 'Why do you resist your desire? Join me…join me and we will build such an empire…Aicanáro.' It hissed the name, long sibilant and full of hatred and desire. 'Long it is since I have tasted you...'

'No…' Elrohir could not move. He could only gaze with fierce sorrow into the green eyes of the Woodelf who stood spellbound and helpless before him…

'He can be yours…' It was so close now he could smell the horrible stink of the beast's foul breath, feel it hot on his skin. 'You are weak and half starved. Do you think any but I understand you? Do you think your father will understand how you stood and watched? Do you think your brother will understand your darkness?'

Elrohir gasped. It had read him only too well, understood him only too well…He could have lived had it only known of his lust.

' You will think on this again and when you are ready… you will succumb.'

Suddenly there was a whoosh of mighty wings, and the air was beaten around him into a storm, his hair tangled with gold. Elrohir felt the slide of steel trace his scalp - a reminder of how close he had come… that he had been spared.

He did not turn to watch the Nazgul retreat. Instead he looked into the Woodelf's green eyes and they did not blink, but there was a faint whisper of warmth on his cheek and he realised they were tears. His own.

He tasted salt on his lips. The Nazgul was right. He was weak. He would succumb.

I am not Maeglin, thought Elrohir desperately. I will not let my dark lust take me over. I will fight it... I will fight and that will release me… He clenched his fists and dug his nails into the palms of his own hands. Elbereth help me! He thought desperately, his own sex was full and hard and throbbed dangerously. He shook Legolas sharply, needing him back, needing him to defend himself.

'Legolas! Awake!' Then he slapped Legolas hard across his cheek. It left a bright red mark. But the green gaze seemed to have absorbed all the colour of the sea and although he flinched, the sea flooded back. He raised his hand again and hit harder, grasping the Woodelf's arm and feeling the bunched muscle, the power. He felt the sting of his open palm as he hit him again.

Although the Elf's head whipped round and for a moment, there was a glimmer of recognition, his eyes glazed over and he murmured something…

'The King is dead.' Slowly, his hands, as if immensely heavy, covered his face for a brief moment and then dropped back like heavy weights.

In his mind, Elrohir saw the torchlight flickering over painted skin, muscles straining. He shook his head and squeezed his eyes closed as if he could shut it out.

'Legolas! It may return! Awaken, curse you!' And this time he backhanded Legolas hard across his cheek so his head snapped round and he staggered. It seemed to him suddenly that the Elf was deliberately tempting him, but he knew those were not his own thoughts… but it was so hard to resist. He hit him again 'Wake!'

He heard a gasp and at the sound, Elrohir felt a surge of power… lingered on the image; Legolas stripped naked and bound, straining at his bonds. Warm firelight, muscles bunched beneath painted swirling runes on his skin, long gold hair sweeping down his back. He saw himself, fist wrapped by Legolas' long hair and he pulled Legolas' head back, felt the dark lust fill him, its hunger knew no bounds…

Suddenly he felt his arm twisted painfully behind his back and he was rammed up against the crumbling wall, his cheek pressed into the stone. There was silence as his assailant pressed him harder against the cold granite and forced his arm further up his back. He felt his sinews stretch. Still his assailant did not speak but Elrohir saw the long gold threads that caught in his.

'Legolas…'he hissed, for his throat was being pressed so he could not breathe. 'Release me!'

There was silence and then, as if he were wakening from a long dream and his tongue was thick in his mouth, the Woodelf spoke. 'You…struck me.'

Elrohir felt Legolas' grip relax momentarily and seized his chance. He snapped his head back hard, hitting Legolas in the face with the back of his skull. He knew that, had Legolas not been emerging from cuivëar, he would never have been caught so easily, but he did not wait to push his advantage. He heard the Elf give a muffled cry and immediately jabbed him in the ribs. Legolas now furious and strong, punched him in the belly and as he doubled up, they tumbled, struggling to the ground where they rolled and wrestled each one for mastery until…until Elrohir looked up into the furious green eyes again. It felt strangely familiar and he was taken back to the last time they had grappled, been this close…

Full, sensuous lips hovered above his and he felt a breath against his face. He stared into the Woodelf's eyes, green, flecked with brown, or gold, or were they slate-grey… the colour shifted but he felt his breathing match Legolas'. Strange how easy it felt, and Elrohir was reminded of the deep shade in woods, ferns and moss, clear forest streams over worn stones…cool against his own fire.

Legolas stared down at him, almost unseeing and Elrohir wondered if he was still deep in cuivëar, unable really to comprehend what was happening, perhaps simply reacting instinctively to a threat… Long gold strands drifted over Legolas' shoulder, mingled with black. Elrohir closed his eyes briefly and saw an image of his own fist tight about the long flaxen hair, Legolas' head pulled back and his own lips pressing…and then he felt warmth on his mouth and opened his eyes in astonishment.

Legolas had leaned in and kissed him. His tongue swiped Elrohir's lips and he gasped in surprise. He felt Legolas' hands tighten on his tunic and pull him closer. Elrohir struggled, wanting nothing more than to push his tongue into the other Elf's mouth, to fill his mouth, to wrestle him so he could bear down on him, slide that loose white shirt from his shoulders and …and… He breathed hard and pushed Legolas away slightly.

As he did so, the Woodelf's eyes seemed to clear a little and he blinked.

'Legolas!' Elrohir said sharply. "Awake, return to yourself!'

This time Legolas' eyes were clear and he stared down at Elrohir, green eyes wide and startled.

'It was the Nazgul,' he said quickly before Legolas could hit him again, or worse, draw the knife he felt against his thigh. And then he realised. It was not a knife, too blunt and thick.

Elrohir swallowed. 'I apologise for striking you,' he said. 'It was the Nazgul…I did not know how to raise you from cuivëar.'

And then the other Elf was pushing himself off Elrohir, avoiding his eyes, teeth set, brushing the dust from his breeches and blood-stained linen shirt. Elrohir stared. Legolas wore no tunic and could hide nothing through those breeches. The Woodelf's sex strained hard against the fabric. He felt an answering surge and glanced up to find Legolas staring at him defiantly, challenging.

'Cuivëar - going into it was the only way I could escape it searching…' Legolas said defensively, seemingly oblivious to the bulging arousal.

Elrohir felt suddenly envious that Mirkwood's children were so free, so unashamed, unlike the Noldor for whom sex was about wedlock and binding and for whom desire was supposed to fade. It had never been so for him and he wondered if he might have been happier had he been born in Mirkwood.

Legolas held out his hand grudgingly and Elrohir grasped it, pulling on the archer's strength to help him up. He found himself standing uncomfortably close, uncomfortably aware of their previous antagonism. He hoped the Woodelf could not see that he too strained against his own breeches beneath his black tunic.

Legolas looked at him wryly. 'It is ironic, Elrondion, for I had intended to apologise to you and your brother. I have treated you discourteously. I especially owe you an apology.' Legolas paused and this time, he did look away. 'For my… attentions… were unwanted and mistaken.' He squared his broad shoulders, and faced Elrohir. 'I beg your pardon, my lord. It will never happen again.'

Elrohir was astounded. And dismayed, for he wanted nothing so much as for it to happen again, for this Elf warrior to press himself against him and say again, 'Let me show you how much I want you.' He wanted to grab Legolas and cry 'How can you say never again when you stand here like this!' But he knew he would not speak. It had been Elladan that Legolas had wanted. And Elrohir thought Legolas must have believed that Elladan wanted it too. Elrohir loved his brother, would not deny him.

And his own promise to Elladan made him strong enough to say then, 'There is nothing that I should forgive, but much that I need to atone.'

Suddenly, Legolas smiled and Elrohir's breath caught. He barely heard the Elf say, 'Then let us forgive each other and speak of it no more.' But he nodded dumbly and clasped his arm in the way of warriors and he did truly wish to be forgiven, he did truly wish to do no further trespass on this bright warrior from the Woodland Realm, who had stolen his heart as surely as Legolas himself had given his to the Sea.

tbc

 

Note: I have given the Nazgul extended powers over their enemies than just fear - I think that they must have more power than is shown in LOTR, partly because their own rings must give them some powers that I have not been able to uncover in any research. I'd be really interested to hear from anyone who knows more.

Translation (ish)

'Helca! Epënyë nacidë minna undumë. Aicanáro!'  
'Begone or I will hew your bones into the abyss. This is Aicanáro!'  
(Courtesy of folk. uib website.)

 

Aicanáro ("k") masc. name "Sharp Flame, Fell Fire. Made by the same smiths who wrought the blade Merry took from the barrow-wights and which struck the Lord of the Nazgul. It was made with magic to defeat the Nazgul - How Elrohir got it is another story, suffice to say the Nazgul would know and fear it, and so would Sauron.

Nányë Rávëyon — Son of Thunder. Name given to the Sons of Elrond, but Elrohir in particular, by the Orcs of the Misty Mountains who fear him more than anyone alive.

(These two names are from the pit of my own imagination!)  
-


	15. Olórin

Warnings: AU. m/m. Violence etc

Just in case you don't know, Olorin is Gandalf's name in Valinor.

Beta: Anarithilien- I can't tell you what a difference she makes.

 

Chapter 15: Olórin

 

Gandalf puffed on his pipe, staring into the embers of the small fire. He shifted in the carved wooden chair and harrumphed irritably. The rooms that had been prepared for him on his arrival in Minas Tirith were comfortable, but not ostentatious, they suited Gandalf. But he was unaware of the comfort right now. Instead, his eyes wide with staring into the flames, he listened.

It was the Music, the Song. It rolled around him. Immense. Majestic. Huge symphonies twined and swirled, like towering thunderhead clouds. Great chords struck and their echo struck like a wonderful thunder, sung again and again. But there, Gandalf paused and listened. A great dissonance, like a bell had rung out of tune, out of time and its clamour had rippled and shattered something that held the symphonies together. And he waited to learn what it was.

He had felt it days ago, when he stood with Pippin on the ramparts of the white city, the night before the siege…the night of the capture of Osgiliath. Faramir had returned, wounded and with only a handful of his Rangers, many slain or taken. Even he, Gandalf, felt a dread in the pit of his stomach at what the enemy would do to their prisoners.

It would be soon. The discord scraped thinly on his nerves. His hair crackled with it, like a storm was about to strike.

All night, he had sensed one solitary Nazgul flying over the city, aware of the thin wailing, too far to be heard by mortal ears. He knew what it was looking for… or he had thought he did.

The ancient spirt that was Olorin looked past the shadowy forms of flesh that was the physical world, and into the bright, shifting world of colour and light and saw in the East, the growing shadows, reaching, grasping, growing darker. The stars that had so recently reappeared, were no longer visible. He waited.

He had swept back the blue woven curtains of the balcony, and let in the moonlight. Pale green leaves of a lime tree rustled and kept him company in this stark city of stone.

And then it came.

Quiet voices outside the door. A soft knock. A muffled argument, one voice half-hearted, another more urgent, insistent. He puffed on his pipe, twice.

'Either enter or go away,' he called irritably but he watched with bright knowing eyes. He wondered who it would be to deliver this message, to tell him what had gone awry.

Slowly, the door creaked opened and to Gandalf's surprise, Legolas stepped into the candlelit room, clad only in breeches and thin linen shirt that was torn and stained with old blood. His boots made no sound on the stone floor.

Gandalf raised an eyebrow. He had not seen Legolas since leaving Orthanc, but the Elf was … unusually dishevelled. As if he were hardly aware of himself. Legolas eyed him warily, half-sleepily. Dreams clung to him of the Sea, and Olorin, within this old man's body, could almost smell the salt and wind, taste it, hear the soughing of canvas filled with the west wind.

So, thought Gandalf, this is what Galadriel meant by her message. And he sighed because he knew what it meant for this child of the forest to lose his heart to the Sea.

He said gently, 'Ah, Legolas. This is a strange hour to come calling, but not unwelcome. Come in, sit down.'

Legolas stood still at the doorway, and smiled that slow smile. Gandalf was relieved to see the sweetness had not gone.

'A strange hour indeed,' the Elf said a little dreamily. 'But Elrohir said I must come now. To tell you.'

Gandalf saw then a darker shadow hung back outside the door. 'Welcome Elrohir,' he said. 'What is it you need to tell me?' The son of his old friend shifted uncomfortably and then followed Legolas into the room.

Gandalf settled himself back in his chair and watched as Legolas took a place on the wide bench by the window and leaned his head back against the stone wall. His green eyes drifted to the lime tree that brushed against the open window and then away, staring out at the night. Elrohir stood in the corner furthest from Legolas, where shadows clustered, away from the bright fire and candle light.

Legolas was emerging from cuivëar, Gandalf could see, and that was strange enough in itself. He knew the Elf would drift in and out of dreams, lucid one moment and dreaming the next. He had seen it before. When Legolas had tilted his head slightly, Gandalf knew he was listening to the Sea. The Elf's slate-green eyes were focused on some distant patch of sky through the window.

'Now, Elrohir, son of Elrond,' Gandalf said. He could see he would get little from Legolas at the moment. 'What is it you must tell me that cannot wait until morning?'

Elrohir did not look at Gandalf, instead he stared at Legolas, as though he were feeding on the sight of him. Gandalf raised an eyebrow slightly and wondered what there was between these two, for Legolas was certainly not above a dalliance with Elrond's sons, Elrond's daughter too if an opportunity presented itself, Gandalf thought a little disapprovingly.

'Elrohir?' he prompted, and this time the Elf looked at Gandalf and the old wizard almost balked at the raw longing in the Elf's eyes.

Gandalf leaned back slowly. Let the story unfold, he reminded himself. 'Where did you find him?' he prompted gently.

Elrohir seemed to shake himself a little, as though he shared some spider-web of dreams with Legolas, but his voice when he spoke, was irritated and his reply short. 'I was returning from the Houses of Healing.'

He does not like to be questioned, Gandalf thought. Here is one used to command. He does not explain his actions .

'I saw him on the city wall,' Elrohir continued, his eyes drawn back to Legolas who leant back against the limestone wall, deep green eyes distant and dream-filled. 'There was a Nazgul above him. I thought it would kill him. I startled it and it flew off.'

'A Nazgul!' Gandalf stared at him in alarm. It must have been the same Nazgul he had heard for most of the night, circling, watching, searching.

'Yes. Legolas was transfixed by it,' Elrohir went on less certainly now. Gandalf watched him shrewdly, wondering if he was hiding something. 'It was like he could not move. It fled when it knew I was there.'

Gandalf pursed his lips speculatively. Then he picked up his pipe once again and considered. 'My dear Elrohir, no one simply chases off a Nazgul. Either it wanted to leave, or it thought you were perhaps the first of many Elves or Men coming to attack it. Nazgul always kill their prey.' He looked about for his flint and then tamped down the pipeweed carefully. 'Hmm.' Gandalf struck his flint and the flame flared briefly. He sucked on the stem of his pipe, tutting as it failed to draw immediately.

Legolas was still staring out of the window, his long hair lifting gently in the breeze. Elrohir had moved closer to him, Gandalf noted, as if he were drawn to him irresistibly. The dark Elf's hand reached out and lightly touched the long pale hair, he stroked his fingers down the flaxen length. But when Legolas leaned towards him, eyes half-closed, Elrohir snatched his hand back like he had been burned. Gandalf looked away and leaned back in his wooden chair. He did not know what there was between these two but he wondered if that touch was unwelcome.

He decided that was not his business, ''Hmm. A Nazgul, eh? And Legolas is left here to tell the tale,' he said musingly. 'Well, we had better hear what he has to say.' He suddenly leant forward and tapped the Elf on his knee.

'Legolas. Awaken now. I need you to tell me what happened.'

Legolas opened his long green eyes languidly, and seeing Gandalf, smiled. Then the Elf caught a slight movement of Elrohir and he lifted his head to stare.

'Ah, you are here,' he said slowly. 'Ravëyon.' He seemed to savour the word, rolling it around his mouth like wine. But Elrohir stepped back in horror.

Gandalf said nothing. Ravëyon. Son of Thunder. He did not know this son of Elrond well, but he had heard the stories. Ravëyon, it was what they called him, the Orcs of the Mountains and he was a terror to them. It was curious, thought Gandalf, how Elrohir had reacted to Legolas saying that name. But he could not think about that now. Instead he leaned forwards, drawing Legolas' face towards him and said gently, 'Legolas? You know what this will mean? I will be looking into your memory… as did the Nazgul.'

For a moment here was a flicker of terror in the Elf's eyes but then he looked up at Gandalf trustingly and nodded.

Gandalf felt a squeeze in his heart at that look of absolute trust, but Olorin steeled himself and placed his hand gently on the Elf's brow. The wizard closed his eyes.

…It was immediate and shocking.

The Sea rushed around him and for a moment he thought he was drowning.

Cuivëar, he told himself. It is not real…He soothed it, settled the immense ocean roar in his ears, the pounding on the surf on white shores… he pressed harder.. What else?

… huge bat-like wings spread over the night sky. Something grazed the edge of Legolas' mind. And a spear of ice was driven deep into his heart …

Gandalf himself almost cried out in shock, for he too felt the searing pain that drove all thought from the Elf…

…the memory of the Nazgul searching, raking its thoughts through the Elf's, searching for one stray thought, one memory that would give it what it needed, one moment …ripping aside everything else, it had paused at the thought of Aragorn but then wanted more...

He felt the Elf tear his thoughts away, tried to think instead of the forest eaves and bright sunlight. But the Nazgul had laughed, showed him instead the burning forest, in flames, and yellow smoke drifting. No! I will not believe that, Legolas had cried aloud and Olorin cried with him in spite of himself… but the Nazgul gave a hollow, grating laugh. Beneath his hood was an empty helm of iron…Kamul, I am Kamul and I know you…Give It to me, the Nazgul pressed hard… He, Olorin, was shown It. He felt like he was no longer simply seeing through Legolas' eyes. Olorin leaned towards It and almost… almost tasted the ash of Mordor before he wrenched his thoughts away, felt the pain and then everything blurred and he could no longer separate what he felt and what the Elf felt, where Legolas began and he, Olorin, ended… The spear of ice drove deeper and he writhed in agony, and then…for a fleeting moment, he showed the Nazgul what he kept in his mind; there was the Ring… so simple, so pure… such gold… He stared at it, held close in a small hand…and then he felt how Legolas had fought and kicked and struggled and opened up the tides that swept them both away. And he was drowning again…

He emerged, spluttering for breath and gasping, aware that someone was pulling at his sleeve, anxiously calling, but he shook him off. Legolas had given away that he had seen a Hobbit with the Ring. What else had he given away? He had to know what else Legolas had seen, what he knew…He pressed his hand harder against the Elf's head, only dimly aware that Legolas was on his knees before him, breath coming in sobs...

… The Sea rushed in, an incoming tide…Legolas struggled against Olorin, desperate to escape...

…No, you will remember, Olorin commanded. Olorin pushed past those dim memories that shocked him nonetheless…he saw the broken teeth of Osgiliath's ruined towers…the hordes of Mordor rushing in… and then there was only the incoming tide, the rush of water… No, he told the Elf, you will not escape to the Sea. He took him deeper. Deeper…he pushed blue light into the corners of the Elf's memory, searching for one shadow of thought…

And then he found what he had been looking for…There it was. A thin thread, like mercury, poison seeping into the Elf's veins. The Nazgul's thoughts…the smallest sliver of darkness…Olorin pressed him. What did he see in that dark nest of evil that was the Nazgul's memories?

He saw a black horse thundering over the desert under hot skies, galloping amongst others over the dunes and his red robes swept behind him, red as the blood on a gleaming steel sword, curved blade …Kamul the Easterling, Kamul the Red Shadow they called him, a dark jewelled ring glittered on his finger…

No. Not that. Olorin pushed into the Elf, forcing him to yield…Deeper, he insisted, deeper. And the Elf gave way…

… there was a Man's face, a Ranger, tortured and screaming and a touch only to his head, even as Olorin did now, brought a screaming anguish… he ripped into the Man and then… ahhhhh…. yesssss….

…A small, pale face stared up at him with eyes that had faded under its too-heavy burden…Frodo… Frodo on his journey through Ithilien… and another small shape crouched nearby, muttering and whispering… Gollum… Gollum… With terrible slowness, the Eye of Fire turned away from the White City and seared Ithilien with its burning gaze.

...The Brethren of the Eight who were once Nine search for the Halfling. He has it. It is precious to him…it seeks to return to its Master…

Ah.

Gandalf broke off abruptly, breathing hard and blue eyes clearing. Frodo! A terrible panic seized him then. Some unfortunate Man had seen Frodo, with Gollum in Ithilien. And that Man, likely one of Faramir's Rangers captured at Osgiliath, had been found by Kamul… yes, it was Kamul that ripped the memory from the Ranger's minds like an untimely birth.

Gandalf looked down at his chest almost expecting to see a gaping hole where the spear of ice had been driven into his heart…but of course, there was nothing, for it was Legolas who had encountered the Nazgul. He was dimly aware of panicked breathing, like sobs from somewhere nearby.

'Again,' he said quietly, and reached towards Legolas, who he realised was kneeling before him now, trembling hands over his face as if to ward off the evil that pervaded his thoughts and it was he who breathed those great panicked sobs. Gandalf hesitated, hand outstretched.

And then Elrohir was half lifting Legolas back to the bench and shouting at Gandalf furiously. 'No! He has suffered enough. Leave him. He will tell you everything, just give him time!'

Gandalf drew his hand back and fell back into the carved wooden chair. It was enough for the moment. Legolas had survived Kamul the Easterling, second only to the Lord of Angmar, the Witchking, now vanquished. Gandalf that had been the Grey, breathed slowly and looked down at his hands, gnarled like branches, blue veins twisting round the bones. Such a strange thing old age in Men. He felt a sudden fear of death and knew that he felt the dark poison of Kamul's thoughts still lingering, his own hunger, fear.

Gandalf sighed and looked with guilty compassion at Legolas, who leaned against Elrohir, his trembling hands still over his eyes. 'He did not know that the Nazgul had to open its mind to him in order to search his memories,' he said quietly, thoughtfully. It grieved him to cause Legolas pain but he knew Legolas would recover. He was steel, like a blade that flexed and sprang back. 'Legolas would not have known those dreadful memories are now in his mind too. It is better that he should forget.'

Elrohir threw him a resentful look and pulled Legolas towards himself possessively. 'You have already done the damage, Gandalf. Look at him! What more would you know?' he demanded distrustfully, his body tensed and furious with anger.

Gandalf looked at him and thought what a formidable enemy he would be, how powerful he was for his energy thrummed and tingled in the air, and he knew this Elf warrior could be dangerous, he had a darkness in him that shadows flocked to.

He stroked his hand gently across Legolas' forehead and this time, gave him warmth and comfort, letting the energy drift through his flesh and blood and bones, giving him peace. Legolas let his hands drop to his sides and his face softened. Gandalf paused to look, for all the Elf's irritating playfulness, the Wizard had an immense affection for him, perhaps even because of that playfulness. Then he let his fingers wander to the Elf's shoulder, seeing the thin scar that traced itself over his collarbone and down his ribs. The bandage had come loose.

'He's bleeding,' he said and lifted the edge of the bandage.

'I will see to him,' said Elrohir coldly and he put his arm beneath Legolas' shoulder and pulled him to his feet. 'If you need to speak to him you can do so in the morning. He will be outside the city walls. You can find him there.'

Gandalf nodded. 'Elrohir?' he said suddenly looking up with his piercing blue gaze.'There are things you too need to tell me. What did the Nazgul reveal to you?'

Elrohir glared at him and pulled Legolas close to him. Legolas leaned against him, his eyes still half closed but peacefully now.

'Nothing. It fled. As you say, why else would it have left us alive if it did not fear I had an army at my back,' he said coldly.

With an arm protectively around Legolas, Elrohir threw open the door and the frost-laden night air flooded in. He threw a resentful glare over his shoulder at his father's old friend and pulled the door shut behind him. Gandalf was alone.

xxxx

Deep in thought, as he had been for hours now, Gandalf stood leaning against the white stone wall of the balcony. Even in the moonlight he could see the lime tree's leaves were pale green and quietly brushed against the white stone. He drew deeply on his pipe, letting smoke curl about his nostrils, his mouth, savouring the bitter soft flavour against his tongue and the back of his throat. Corporeality had its compensations, he thought. He watched the smoke swirl and drift into rings about his head, lazily turning them blue, then red, then green as he pondered.

Sauron was narrowing his search to Ithilien, where a Hobbit had been seen with Gollum.

Gandalf stared at nothing now and the smoke dissolved around him into long wisps. It would not be long now before the Nazgul found Frodo. Only four of Sauron's foul servants had been in the battle. It took little to imagine where the other five Nazgul might have been. All the time Sauron continued to search for the Ring in Ithilien he drew closer to finding it. Somehow Sauron must come to believe the Hobbit who had the Ring was not in Ithilien but here, in Minas Tirith.

Gandalf sighed. Maybe Legolas' encounter with the Nazgul was the smallest piece of luck after all. Maybe… He stared out across the battlefield where fires blazed to burn the carrion of Mordor …Maybe he could use this to his advantage. Maybe he could create a fissure of doubt in Sauron's mind.

He considered what he knew. The Nazgul, Kamul, had fled, taking with him the image gleaned from Legolas; a Hobbit holding the Ring. Kamul would tell Sauron that the Elf who had seen this was in Minas Tirith where the Heir of Isildur was, and with Gandalf himself! Minas Tirith was where a mere Hobbit, with the help of a Rohirrim maid, had vanquished the Lord of the Nazgul. Surely this would give the Dark Lord pause, create doubt enough to give Frodo a chance?

But Gandalf knew it was not enough… he had to do something to bring those great chords that clanged against each other now back into the great symphonies.

He thought again of the plan that was gradually forming in his mind. But he did not like it. It was fraught with difficulties and maybes… But then, he had not liked any of the plans the Wise had come up with to destroy Sauron. Every one they had ever tried had had gaping holes in them too …Not least of these was the plan to send one small Hobbit on his weary way through the dust and ash of Mordor. One small Hobbit, and the gangling creature that was Smeagol.

He had not seen Sam in that memory of Frodo, and Gandalf blinked suddenly at the thought of the small valiant gardener and what must have happened to tear him away from Frodo's side.

But the blue fire that was Olorin steeled himself; if there was any way to make Frodo's way easier, then he must take it. … No matter the cost? Gandalf asked himself. No matter the cost, Olorin answered but he was appalled at what he was going to , he thought that Legolas himself would be the least likely of all the Fellowship to protest at his plan…even though it was the Elf who would suffer most.

TBC

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Chapter End Notes:


	16. Awakening

As always, many, many thanks to lovely Anarithilien who guided me to this point- bless her!

For Savingfics who is kind enough to leave a comment. Thank you.

 

Chapter 16: Awakening

 

Elrohir was seething, half carrying Legolas through the empty streets with him, away from Gandalf and his relentless, searching violation of Legolas. He had shouted furiously at Gandalf that he had abused Legolas, abused his trust, invaded him in the same way as had the Nazgul. He did not stay to hear Gandalf's answer, his furious anger surging and roiling in his veins. It was enough that Gandalf had challenged Elrohir to reveal what the Nazgul had shown him.

Elrohir's heart had almost stopped that moment. Surely Gandalf had not seen what the Nazgul showed Elrohir? Surely he could not have seen those obscene images, Legolas sprawled beneath him, naked and pleading, like a sacrifice…or those other images, the suffocating tunnels, the stench of Orc, the muffled screams that were forever burned into his memory…

Elrohir had denied it of course. Denied the Nazgul had had any words with him, shown him nothing, offered him nothing. And with an arm protectively around Legolas, Elrohir had thrown open the door and the frost-laden night air flooded in. He threw a resentful glare over his shoulder at his father's old friend and pulled the door shut behind him. He half-held, half dragged Legolas from the Wizard's rooms and through the empty streets.

In the cold breath of night, Legolas leaned heavily against him, his body hanging off Elrohir like he was fainting. Elrohir pulled the other Elf's arm over his shoulder and pulled his body close, breathing in his scent, immersing himself in the Wood Elf's presence.

Cursing Gandalf again, he made his way through the silent streets. The clouds were building up once more in the East and there were no stars. Suddenly Legolas stumbled again and fell against Elrohir. Elrohir braced himself to steady them both before they fell. They rocked together for a moment and then steadied.

Legolas glanced down at his own chest as if to see the wound that still bled. But then he lifted his head to stare at Elrohir, uncomprehending and vulnerable.

'I feel like ice.' he murmured and again, his hand drifted to his chest. 'I thought I had a spear of ice in my chest…' His voice trailed off and he gazed into the sky.

And then the Wood Elf began to shiver and Elrohir was suddenly alarmed. When his teeth began to chatter with cold, Elrohir anxiously felt Legolas' hand and then his forehead.

He swore furiously. 'You are cold,' he said, glancing at the torn and filthy shirt and knowing that an Elf would not normally suffer the cold even on such a night as this. Standing square and steadying Legolas, he unclasped his cloak one handed, and drew it from his own shoulders. Then he threw it round Legolas' trembling body.

'You are cold from your encounter with the Nazgul, and with Gandalf,' he explained patiently. He hauled Legolas' arm over his shoulder, pulling him even closer than before, tugging the edges of the heavy sable cloak around the Elf.

Legolas seemed to clear a little then and his green eyes blinked slowly, owlishly at Elrohir. Muffled in the black cloak with his long pale hair escaping, he looked suddenly very young and vulnerable. And instead of the usual rage and passion, Elrohir felt a surge of tenderness. He lifted his hand and smoothed the escaping tendrils of hair away from Legolas' face and stroked his fingers down his cheek.

'Peace.' Elrohir let a little of his own healing fire warm the blood and flesh. 'Peace.' He pulled the Elf's head towards him, wanting to bury himself in his scent, in his nearness, but he only pressed his own cheek gently against his temple.

And Legolas seemed to accept it, leaned into him even.

More slowly now, he led the Elf down through the lower levels of the deserted city and towards the warm, noisy soldiers' camp where there was fire and ale and singing and sleeping warriors, and the Dwarf, Gimli. Elrohir knew he himself could give Legolas comfort, heal his wounds and bring him back to himself and so he sought Aragorn's tent, hoping that either the Man had returned from the Healing Houses or that he could find what he needed there instead.

xox

Aragorn's tent had been set up amongst his company of Dúnedain for he had declared himself, not King of Gondor, but as the Chief of the Dúnedain, the Northmen descended from Numenor. But those who had seen him fight, who had heard him rally the dispirited army and seen his company, knew here was a great leader. Rumour spread quickly amongst the rank and file so his tent was fitting for the Heir of Isildur. Two Dúnedain sat near a small fire, they looked up as Elrohir approached and with barely a glance of interest, nodded as he pulled aside the tent flap and led Legolas within.

Sumptuous rugs and furs were beneath their feet and a small desk on one side. On another side, a chest with a bowl and a ewer of water. Lamps were already lit and he was grateful for that. Aragorn's pack had been leant against the chest and his sword lay across the desk. Folded neatly on the bed were a number of clean shirts, tunics, a cloak and boots, Elrohir noted with quiet satisfaction. The Men of Gondor intended to take care of their returned king.

'Sit here,' he said, lowering Legolas gently on a carved wooden chair, letting him lean back. Elrohir's own sable cloak swathed him.

Elrohir turned to rummage in Aragorn's pack and dug out a soft leather pouch . He strode over to the tent flaps and pushed them aside, calling to one of the Dúnedain who kept watch without. Then he went back inside and dragged a fur coverlet from the bed and draped it over Legolas.

As he swept the fur around the Elf, Legolas looked up at Elrohir with the same trust that he had looked at Gandalf. When he raised his hand and rubbed one eye it was sleepily, like a child too tired to stay up any longer.

'You can sleep soon,' said Elrohir, pulling the side of the fur from one shoulder, 'but you must let me look at you first.'

There was a flash of light reflecting off the dark jewel in his mother's ring and at first Elrohir thought nothing of it. But Legolas tensed and Elrohir saw an answering flash of challenge in the slate green eyes. He realised Legolas was staring down at Elrohir's own hand and frowning, as if trying to work out why something was important. The dark jewel of his mother's ring flashed briefly and Legolas' eyes widened. Elrohir froze, remembering that it was the sight of the ring that had made Legolas back away in that small cabin on the SeaSong, to raise his hand to his cheek where the bruise still lingered.

'Yes, it is I, Elrohir,' he told Legolas as softly, as gently as he could, letting the warmth of his healing soothe and calm. 'You are safe with me. I will not hurt you.'

'Ravëyon,' said Legolas trustingly, all challenge gone.

Elrohir winced. He wished Legolas had no memory of that. He feared the Woodelf might remember also the Nazgul's dreadful offer of his own body as sacrifice to Elrohir's dark lust.

He approached as he might a wild animal. He lay his hand upon Legolas' shoulder and slid the thin linen shirt from his shoulder. 'You are bleeding,' he explained patiently.

Legolas looked down again and then touched his fingers to his chest lightly. Elrohir saw that his shirt was filthy, blood from the wound stained his chest, and mud crusted the hem of the shirt and spattered up it.

Legolas raised his hand and stared at it, his eyes unfocused. He frowned at the blood in his fingers as if he had forgotten blood, forgotten what his hand looked like and then shook his head as if to rid himself of a memory, and fell back against the chair.

'Ai! Ravëyon... what have I done?' Legolas murmured and turned his face away from Elrohir. 'I have betrayed Frodo. I have shown the Nazgul that Frodo has the Ring and now they will pursue him to his death.'

Legolas clutched at his heart. 'I have betrayed them...Frodo..' he moaned, anguish in his green eyes.

Elrohir could say nothing but he remembered the image of the small hand and in its palm, the Ring…he frowned. How had he seen that?

But Legolas had covered his face with his hands. 'I showed the Nazgul that I had seen It…in Frodo's hand..I showed the Nazgul the Ring.'

Elrohir glanced at the Elf but he was not one to comfort with empty words, more often standing watch whilst Elladan healed or comforted or listened. But Elladan was not here, there was only him.

Suddenly Legolas bent over like he was in pain and moaned. 'I have betrayed them both…Sam... Sam… and now the Song… Ai!' He pulled the sable cloak around himself tightly again and rocked himself once like a child and then stopped, head bowed.

Elrohir put a hand on the distraught Elf's shoulder and stared down at the golden head. With one hand he caught up the long flaxen hair that lay across the sable cloak and felt it sift through his fingers as he had longed to do, feeling the cool heaviness, he weighed it in his hand.

'Peace,' he whispered. 'You will have peace now.' He tried to hear the Elf's Song knowing it would bring him comfort, but it was faint and as always for Elrohir, more of a resonance than a clear song...there was a dim sense of the forest , but no more than a sense and what his own imagination supplied.

'My lord.'

Elrohir realised that the Dúnedan whom he had sent for boiling water had returned and in a strange echo of Legolas aboard the SeaSong when he had brought water for Nestor, the Dúnedan stood at the tent opening with a pan of water. Steam curled up from it, gently rising in the cold air.

Elrohir strode over and took the pan from the Ranger, nodding his thanks.

He flipped open the soft leather pouch and took out a large pinch of dried athelas and dropped it onto the steaming water and although it was not fresh, the cleansing fragrance immediately filled the air. He pushed the basin of steaming water towards Legolas.

'Breathe this in and you will come back to yourself.' he said. 'I must change this dressing or the wound will become infected….Legolas? Listen to me.' He put a hand on the Elf's shoulder and shook him slightly.

The Woodelf dragged his attention back to Elrohir and his eyes focused.

'I am sorry…I am sorry,' Legolas said again, but more insistently. 'I should never have…'

'There was nothing you could do. The Nazgul are stronger than any of us except Gandalf,' he said urgently, looking into the Elf's anguished eyes. 'You showed it only a Hobbit's hand holding the Ring. You did not give anything else away. You should be proud that you resisted. You put yourself in terrible danger to stop it from seeing any more.'

Legolas searched his face, almost believing, and then he moaned quietly, 'I should not have hesitated. I should not have been there. How did it know I was there?'

Elrohir shook Legolas again. 'This is pointless. Useless. It has happened. You must make amends in some way if you can, by standing with Aragorn and defeating the Enemy, as you have always done in the Forest,' he said briskly, unsympathetically. Legolas' green eyes looked up at him. Elrohir noted he had become calmer and knew the athelas was doing its work. At least he was now listening, Elrohir thought.

'Yes, as you have always done!' he said again, emphatically. 'I have always admired Thranduil,' Elrohir continued, pulling the sable cloak from Legolas' shoulder and prodding at the bloodstained bandage. 'When I was a child I wanted to live in Mirk…the Greenwood,' he continued almost conversationally, remembering how he had loved the stories of Mirkwood, where the reckless Wood Elves battled with giant spiders and wargs and wolves and goblins. In remembering his childhood, he surprised himself. There was no anger or pain, just an amused memory of his admiration for Mirkwood.

He slid the torn shirt from Legolas broad, muscular shoulder and lifted the bloody bandage. The thin scar was beaded with blood and still it seemed unable to heal. Elrohir frowned. He knew it was not poisoned or infected.

'It has not healed? At all? That is strange.' Elrohir stood before him, dark head bent to examine it. And then he touched it.

The flesh was hot, but not fevered. But he felt Legolas' reaction, felt the shudder run through him and heard him catch his breath. 'Perhaps it is the Cuivëar that is stopping it from healing,' he managed to say, but he was looking at Legolas's strong, beautiful face and watching his mouth, full and sensuous. Elrohir thought about the other Elf's reaction, knowing it was not from pain, watched how Legolas' eyelids fluttered and stayed half-closed, dark lashes against his flushed cheek.

Elrohir stroked his fingers lightly over the scar, peeled the thin bandage away. He tried not to look at the writhing Dragon that peered up at him, or the runes of protection that swirled around the small hard nipple that pebbled when he touched it. He dipped a cloth into the warm water suffused with athelas and wiped it over the heated skin.

Then he reached into Aragorn's pack again to search and then finding nothing useful, he began irritably pulling things out one by one and discarding them on the ground. His fingers brushed across the leather satchel, stretched over a spherical object and as soon as his fingers touched it, he felt a tremor of power. It was the Palantir.

He paused, feeling it pulse within him in recognition of his heritage. It spoke to him as it had many days ago now, at Helm's Deep when Aragorn had first looked into it. He felt the tug, an answering call…but resolutely he pushed past the satchel and searched for the small, carefully wrapped packets of drugs and the small bottle.

Finding the bottles and packets he needed at last, Elrohir shoved them onto the desk, the bottles clattering. Then he grabbed a wad of linen from the bottom of Aragorn's pack. He turned to pull out stoppers from one of the bottles and unwound a thin piece of cloth.

He poured out a thick yellow unguent onto the palm of his hand, the stink of it brought tears to his eyes and he knew it would sting. So before the Elf had time to protest, Elrohir had slapped it onto Legolas' skin and smeared it thickly on his wound. 'This should help,' he said mercilessly.

'Elbereth's tits!' swore Legolas. Elrohir raised an eyebrow; even now, if he used such a curse, Glorfindel would have had his hide and he would never dare use such language in front of his father. 'That is disgusting stuff!'

'One of Aragorn's favourites,' Elrohir told Legolas, unsmiling. 'I am surprised he has not used it on you before.'

'If he has I was unconscious at the time,' Legolas said with feeling. 'If he had tried to use that on me I would have had to thump him!'

'But you will not thump me?' Elrohir asked with a slight smile.

Legolas looked a little uncomfortable and then he smiled back wryly. 'Have we not done that enough to each other?' he asked and he put his hand over Elrohir's for a moment. 'I am sorry for my part.'

Elrohir looked down at where the Elf's hand covered his.

'You have already apologised…more than once,' said Elrohir. 'You have nothing to apologise for. It is I who should make amends.' He looked away, shaking his head in disgust at himself. Here he was, Elrohir Ravëyon, son of Elrond, descended from Eärendil and Luthien, with the blood of Maia and the noblest houses of the High Elves, who had trespassed most violently against this Wood Elf. And yet it was Legolas who was earnestly apologising to him. He recalled, almost bitterly, that one of the reasons Legolas was sorry was because he had kissed Elrohir aboard the SeaSong. Elrohir did not want him to be sorry.

He said nothing more, and simply began wrapping a clean bandage tenderly around Legolas' chest.

'That will see you through I think. But tomorrow evening you will need to come back and have Elladan or Aragorn look at it.' He stood and moved to place the rolls of linen and cloths on the desk that was behind Legolas' chair.

'Not you?' Legolas pushed aside the fur coverlet and sable cloak as if he were suddenly too warm. Elrohir was aware of his lean, muscled body, the painted skin. He tried not to be, but he could not help himself. He did not answer the question that still hung between them but busied himself instead with tidying the bottles and packets of herbs.

Legolas was silent for a moment and then he looked down at the new, clean white strip encircling his chest and grimaced. 'It seems to be taking a long time to heal,' he repeated Elrohir's earlier words. 'I do not know why,' he said as he pushed the fur and sable cloak from his body and struggled to his feet.

He swayed a little as he stood, holding onto the chair back for a moment and Elrohir reached out to steady him.

'Wait. You are not ready,' he said easing the Elf back into the chair. And then realising how churlish he had been to not offer himself to heal this Elf whom he desired more than anything he had ever wanted, slowly, cautiously, he knelt down in front of Legolas. Looking up almost shyly, he said, 'Let me heal you.'

Legolas stared at him for a moment, cheeks flushed and lips parted. He nodded breathlessly, gaze fastened on Elrohir.

Elrohir shuffled closer, so he was almost between Legolas' knees but taking great care not to touch anywhere else, he placed his hand chastely on Legolas' heated skin, above the grinning dragon, to let the healing glow suffuse his flesh with warmth. He let his own breathing slow and come into the same rhythm as Legolas', closing his eyes and focusing all his attention on first their breathing and then slowly, he reached his own healing power down through his fingertips. He soothed the stretched nerves and sinews, reached down into muscles and bone.

He almost gasped aloud at the mixture of sensations that overwhelmed him as never before.

It was like a soothing balm, like fire, like the excitement of battle. Like an ecstasy.

Elrohir closed his eyes, listened to the breath…the pounding of their blood in their veins... like distant drumming sounding the signal for war and it thrilled his blood… Then he heard notes, single notes that coalesced into one Song, a thrilling, vibrant Song that reminded him of a high place in the mountains, where eagles cried, keen-eyed and fierce, the wind under their wings soaring high over the snow-covered peaks…

Legolas' eyelids fluttered and Elrohir suddenly understood that he was experiencing what Legolas was feeling, that the Wood Elf amplified the Song in some way for him, so he could hear it; the notes suddenly soared and he felt his heart would burst with the joy and pain of it, with the sensation of familiarity, of sensuous excitement.

Is this what love is? he wondered with the still conscious part of his mind, Is this what I have been missing? Is it always like this? Is this what he hears all the time? Is this the Song?

And he leaned in closer, wanting to hear that Song for it was as familiar to him as his own breath, the thump of his own heart. Here were the notes of his own Song and yet he never heard it before... soaring over a green place, a forest filled with light. He walked beneath a wide canopy of beech trees in Spring. No, not beneath… he was within the canopy, amongst the new pale green leaves as they unfurled, filtering the sunlight so he was bathed in a pale green light.

Ah, Greenleaf indeed, he thought. There was the stillness of deep forests, clear water pooled amongst the ferns and mossy boulders, bubbled over granite and slate…

He felt he could be safe here, with Legolas, and that those horrific memories that had spoiled him, ruined his innocence and love, might even dissipate under the pale green light…even the long wheat-pale hair that was tangled in his fingers would not take him to that dark place…Perhaps he was not that twisted, depraved thing he feared…Perhaps he would not imagine his mother, perhaps this time he would not descend into the mire of his dark lust...

He knew if he did not take control of his courage though, he would never know this again. And he felt suddenly so sad that he had wasted all this time locked into the prison of his memories…

So Elrohir took hold of his heart and leaned closer until he was pressed against the Elf between his legs, his face against Legolas' flat belly breathing in his scent, beneath his heart, his hand over the wound. He wanted to cover that body with his own, not a violent frenzied lust that wanted to hurt, but a desperate tenderness, lavishing long languid strokes on his skin, his flesh. He wanted to sink into the scent and Song and flesh. Legolas let his head fall back, sprawled lewdly in the chair, his lips parted, as though he were ravished.

He knew as certainly as he knew himself that Legolas could not help the shiver on his skin at the feel of Elrohir's own long fingers against his flesh anymore than he could help pushing himself against his body. It was unlike anything either had felt before, a deep touching of faer.

He found himself pulling Legolas towards him, and pushing his mouth against his, tongue forcing its way into his mouth, against his own tongue with a passion and desire that shook him to his bones. His free hand clasped the back of Legolas' head and pulled him closer, deeper and he listened with Legolas to the rhythmic pounding, the battle and fierce pride, flying keen-eyed and fierce, the wind under eagle wings, soaring high over mountains, the ecstasy in his blood… and he knew that finally, he was hearing his own Song, the Song of Elrohir Ravëyon, Son of Thunder.

And suddenly the long green eyes that were half closed in ecstasy, flew open and looked up towards the tent opening in horror. Legolas pushed Elrohir away so suddenly that he fell back and had to steady himself with one hand. Legolas said something then that was so obscene that Elrohir gasped. But the Wood Elf was already on his feet and moving towards the tent opening.

Elrohir turned to see Eomer, King of Rohan standing in the doorway, rooted to the spot, his eyes wide, hurt, betrayed. Somehow he had entered the tent without either Elf sensing him.

'Legolas.' That one word that came from the devastated Man's lips was like a breath, such pain, such desire.

Eomer turned to leave, an incoherent cry torn from his throat, but Legolas had already crossed the short distance between them in two strides and caught at Eomer's hand.

'No. Wait… Eomer,' Legolas said distressed, holding the Man back and then stood in front of him, leaning against him, stopping him from leaving.

Elrohir rested on his heels, a sudden surge of hurt and confusion in his chest. He rose slowly, making little attempt to cover himself, allowing Eomer to dwell on him, to piece together what had happened.

'No,' Eomer said hoarsely, 'I am interrupting. Forgive me.' He bowed to Elrohir but Legolas still held him, desperately, thought Elrohir.

'Please. Don't go like this.'

'No!' Eomer pulled his arm away and then shook his head, 'Legolas, you were honest with me. You said it was no more than it is, and I know that is true now… I had just hoped…' He bowed his head to hide the longing on his face. And Elrohir knew he had the same look in his own grey eyes when he looked on the Woodland Elf.

Elrohir turned away. He could not bear to look upon them; Legolas had sprung to Eomer the moment he laid eyes upon him, he had shoved Elrohir away like some irritating puppy. And the truth of it hurt Elrohir more than he thought possible; an image of a grey ship disappearing over the horizon… His fists were clenched he realised and unbidden the thought; he is just like her!

He felt an urge to grab Legolas by the hair and throw him back, cover his body with his and tell him not to listen, to leave the Man. He opened his mouth to beg Legolas to come with him now, to push past the Man, to leave this place and… it was too late.

Legolas placed one hand gently on Eomer's shoulder and Eomer looked up into the Elf's face, his eyes were full of adoration. Too transparent, too obviously besotted, thought Elrohir bitterly.

'They told me you were here,' Eomer's hand drifted down to Legolas' chest where the bandage showed white beneath the open shirt. 'They said you had been hurt, that you were in here…that's why I came.' Eomer's brown eyes searched the Wood Elf's face anxiously.

Elrohir watched intently. He saw that Legolas' heart was wrenched with pity for the young Man. He saw the compassion in his green eyes and how the Man's face lit with hope.

'Yes, an old wound. It would not heal…' Legolas paused and looked at Elrohir with a hopeful, anxious expression in his eyes. 'I think it will now.'

But Elrohir watched with jealous rage as the Man lifted his hand and shyly brushed away the long hair that clung to the Elf's face and smiled.

Eomer lightly traced the bandage over Legolas' torso but Legolas caught his hand and gently, firmly, moved it away. Eomer looked up surprised and perhaps disappointed but Elrohir was not fooled. He did not bother to listen to their murmured words, nor watch the gentle kindness Legolas showed Eomer when he pushed him to sit in the chair he had so recently vacated and reminded the young man that he was now King.

Elrohir wanted to fight him, fight and defeat this Man, leave him bleeding on the floor and then take Legolas away, press the blond Elf into the ground, tear his clothes from his body and…there was no tenderness now. Only a raging jealousy.

Elrohir turned away quickly and rubbed his hands over his face. The huge, draining experience of being with Legolas, of hating him and wanting him, of loving him, had exhausted Elrohir. He was sick of the games, the jealousy, the teasing, the constant teasing, the fighting and flirting, the way his long golden hair swung down his back, the line of his broad shoulders, the swagger of his lean hips…Elrohir clenched his fists. There had been no rumour from the Rohirrim camp, they were as close-lipped about their heroes as river-oysters, but anyone could see the besotted way this boy-king looked at Legolas. Elrohir had watched them closely together at Helm's Deep and knew that Legolas had been, or still was, this Man's lover.

'Here.' He couldn't bear it any longer and snatched up a clean shirt from the pile left on Aragorn's bed, and threw it towards Legolas. 'This is clean and belongs to no one. Put it on and get rid of that filthy rag of a shirt you've been wearing.' He said it with more force than he intended, and he saw Legolas recoil slightly in surprise. He didn't care. Elrohir had had enough. He had been ready to give his heart but Legolas was fickle and now that Eomer was here, Elrohir knew that the Mirkwood Elf would no longer bother with him. He was done with Legolas.

He felt a dreadful lancing pain in his chest and his nails dug into his palms. He knew too, of the reputation of the Mirkwood Elves and their promiscuity. Legolas' attempt to seduce him aboard the Sea-Song was evidence of that - except Legolas had thought it was Elladan he was seducing, and not Elrohir himself.

Elrohir turned away, gritting his teeth and suppressing the furious rage that rose in his chest. It was Legolas's fault! He made him feel like this! He aroused him and teased him and it meant nothing! An image surfaced in his mind of Legolas, stripped naked, bound in chains of steel that bit into his wrists, and he turned and twisted, struggled, Elrohir's own hand on the bound Elf's hip… he could punish him for taking this boy for a lover… He almost gasped with the intensity of lust that roared through his body and surged in his groin. Legolas had brought this on himself.

He turned and gave a sketchy bow to both the King of the Mark and the Mirkwood Elf. 'I must attend my brothers,' he managed to say, ' I will be with Aragorn. Farewell my lord.' He shoved past them both and even though Legolas flung out a hand to catch him as he pushed past, he wrenched himself free, fled from the suddenly small and stuffy tent and out into the chill air under the grey sky. The clouds had buried the stars and the frost had gone. It was the first grey light of dawn.

xoxoxox

TBC

Next chapter: Gandalf's dastardly plan is revealed! Coming soon.


	17. Gandalf's Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saving fics- didn't I say you aint seen nothing about Gandalf yet?

Disclaimer: Not mine. Just mucking about. No money etc

Beta: Anarithilen,.

 

Chapter 17: The Plan

Pale light gleamed through the thin canvas and for a moment, Legolas wondered where he was. He was lying naked on the cold ground, but wrapped in a sumptuous fur coverlet and there was gentle snoring nearby. Fuzzily he remembered he had actually stolen the fur from amongst the many luxurious furs in Aragorn's tent. He didn't think Aragorn would begrudge him, there had been so many. That had been in the chilly grey morning when he had steered a stunned Eomer towards his own camp and to sleep, and then Legolas himself had wandered for a while, searching unsuccessfully for Elrohir.

He rubbed his hands over his eyes, feeling the heaviness of his limbs as if he had been drugged. He remembered too that he had a fresh bandage wrapped across his chest by Elrohir…He thought about that for a moment and realised that he had a pleasant bulge at his groin. He recalled a touch that reached down into his muscles and bone, that made his heart tremble with desire.

He smiled to himself and felt a surge of emotion in his belly and another kind of surge altogether in his groin. Elrohir's Song echoed in his mind, the high place of the mountains where eagles cried and the snow never melted…And while his thoughts remembered this, his body remembered the deep, deep desire that had shaken him to his bones, like nothing he had ever felt before. It made his blood sing like the excitement of battle. His feä rejoiced in it, his sinews and muscles and skin longed for Elrohir's skin against his, his body pressed against him. Legolas half-closed his eyes, and let his hands drift over his chest, belly, thighs as his muscles and flesh remembered the press of Elrohir's hard body against his, the crush of his mouth, the clash of teeth and tongues and lips…how Elrohir's tongue had filled his mouth, pushing deep. And his own desire had been overwhelming…

Drawing a deep breath, he tried to clear his mind but he could only see the half-closed eyes of the dark Elf, his noble, strong-boned face, his lips parted in lust and passion…and Legolas wanted to see him sprawled naked on the fur, head thrown back in ecstasy, long hair splayed out behind him and arching his strong, muscular body…

Legolas ached, the bulge of his desire insistent and he put his hand over his arousal. But the ache was strongest in his heart.

He had not found Elrohir last night. But he had not searched hard, thinking that when he had explained to Elrohir that he and Eomer had been recent lovers, albeit briefly, Elrohir would understand that Legolas could not have ignored Eomer, could not have let the Man leave with his feelings torn and bruised. Eomer was so young, bereaved. And to stumble across Elrohir and Legolas as he had…

Legolas sighed and licked his dry lips. He had assumed that Elrohir himself had found himself in a similar situation at least once in his long life, for he must have had many lovers… maybe he still did. A strange, little sensation niggled Legolas at the thought of Elrohir's previous lovers. It was unfamiliar for he was not a jealous soul and his relationships were light and free, but he recognised it nonetheless.

Ai, Elbereth, he scolded himself. He was like some lovesick youth. Hadn't that same frustration led him to go up to the city in the first place? He felt himself tense with frustration, and wriggled his feet and ignored his insistent cock.

He shook his head and stretched his arms, feeling his sinews tighten and the pull of healing tissues, muscles mending and skin sealing along the thin scar. He focused inward and told them to mend more quickly, thought along the nerves and soothed them. Unlike before, when he had tried to do the same, telling them to mend, he had encountered only a stubborn resistance. This time he felt them respond, soothe and stretch pleasurably with healing… with a lingering sense of Elrohir's touch.

He smiled and touched his fingers lightly to his lips, feeling them swollen and tender with Elrohir's desperate desire. He would find Elrohir, explain and then woo him, take his time. It had rushed out of control last night and when Eomer had blundered in it had all gone so horribly wrong…

Stealthily Legolas unwrapped himself from the fur. His filthy shirt and breeches were flung on the floor and his boots were shoved into the corner of the tent. And then he saw a clean shirt had been folded neatly beside him on top of a clean tunic, a homely brown of woven cloth, it was true, but it was clean and not spattered with Orc blood. There were breeches too, of a dark brown and some serviceable boots. Even better, a basin and a ewer of cold, clean water stood nearby, and a small cake of soap. He smiled and silently thanked their unknown benefactor…Aragorn, he guessed, and smiled more widely. It was not enough but it would do for now, he thought and gratefully he soaped himself thoroughly and then sloshed water carefully around in the basin, careful to leave plenty for Gimli.

He glanced across at the sleeping Dwarf, lying happily on his back, axe leaning against the cot and his helm perched crookedly on the bed-knob, exactly as he had left him last night… So much had happened in so few hours. And then the Elf began a low, tuneless, irritating whistle that was really the hiss of air through his teeth.

The Dwarf twitched slightly, and snored. Legolas carried on whistling as he soaped his armpits and groin, he slapped himself playfully and with a grin, decided he was going to behave himself. 'You,' he directed his words downwards, 'are going to stay firmly inside my breeches for a bit. There is too much to lose now and you have been barely discrete.' He looked ruefully at it's bulging state and waggled it a bit. 'Yes. I know it's hard but you are just going to have to get used to it.'

He lifted the edge of the thin linen cloth that bound his chest and stared. It had almost healed. He touched his hand to his cheek and felt the bruise no longer hurt, knowing it was Elrohir who had healed him. Again. The arrow wound he had received at Pelargir had all but gone. It had been this thin scar that Elrohir had given him that refused to heal… and now it had. How strange…

He remembered the previous night in parts, some of it only dimly, some of it with vivid clarity. He rubbed his chest to erase the memory of that cold spear of ice that drove down into his flesh...but there was only a thin scar, a torn and bloody bandage. And he remembered standing outside in the cold night, staring stupidly at his wet hand… he had forgotten what his hand looked like…He had been so cold…

He shook himself, reminding himself that Gimli slept behind him. Foolishness, he scolded himself. The Nazgul is gone. It is gone and you are still alive. Rejoice!

He sloshed a wave of cold water over his face and paused, leaning on his hands, head bowed over the basin, watching the droplets fall back into the bowl from his long hair, nose, eyelashes.

It had been Elrohir who had saved him. And then taken him to Gandalf. And Elrohir who had dragged him away from Gandalf, pulling him along the cold streets, swearing furiously. Legolas remembered being mildly impressed with the range and vocabulary of the curses, and that it had been Gandalf that he was cursing so roundly.

Suddenly a loud snore came from behind him and the rumbling of an awakening Dwarf.

The Dwarf 's eyes were still closed and although his nose twitched, a sure sign that he was indeed awakening, he was still half-asleep. Legolas grinned mischievously and began to whistle again as he had before.

xoxox

Gimli snored peaceably and only when a particularly loud one rumbled through his nose and chest and he stopped breathing for a second, did he wake up with a start. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. He had been dreaming…a strange dream. He had been galloping in a desert, a mass of colour and light and shadows. In his mind was a glimmer of heat, hot blue above and hot white below… liquid red gleamed on a curved blade and he did not know what it was but that he delighted in it. Crimson richness swirled around him in the hot wind but he had forgotten what it was… Now there was only black, not rich, but thin, like a shroud… he had forgotten...

Gimli shuddered for the dream had made him think of the Nazgul and he did not wish that. The less he thought of them the better.

It was then he realised it was not his snoring that had awoken him but a quiet but insistent tuneless whistling. Almost a hiss of breath through clenched teeth. It put his nerves on edge. He knew it could only be Legolas.

The tuneless hissing grew a little louder and then quite suddenly, Gimli got an eyeful of cold wet cloth, smack in the face.

'Come Master Sluggard,' came that irritatingly bright voice, 'It is almost noon and you still snore like a dozen Wargs after a Dwarf has been sharpening his axe on their teeth. Get up and come greet the day.'

Gimli removed the wet clout from his face and peered up into the bright green eyes of his comrade.'It is not noon, you foolish Elf,' he complained. 'It is quiet and no one is about but you. What you mean is you are bored.'

He grunted and threw the clout back at the Elf who caught it and laughed loudly. Gimli knew what would happen next so he gripped his blanket tightly and when, as anticipated, the Elf grabbed the edge and tried to flick it off him, he hung on grimly, swearing in Khuzdul and invoking a rich variety of plagues and curses to be heaped upon the Elf's head should he try any of his usual tricks.

'It is like living in a box of frogs,' he complained. He had slept deeply, like a stone, and had only really dreamed in the waking moments. Legolas, he thought, looked like he had slept well too, for his eyes were bright and he looked more relaxed than he had for many days, weeks even… He looked more closely at the Elf. In fact, mused Gimli, he was almost too bright, feverishly bright. He rubbed his eyes sleepily and groaned, for every muscle ached from the long, long battle.

'Here. There is warm water to wash in, and clean clothes.' The Elf moved away from the basin of water and dried himself on what looked like some luxurious fur. Gimli opened his eyes wider. Where had he found such a thing? Then the Elf's words penetrated.

'Clean clothes?' Gimli looked around and spied a pile of neatly folded garments. He wondered if there would be oils for his hair and beard but thought he was expecting too much. ' Where did they come from?' Gimli swung his feet out from the bed and sat on the edge of the narrow cot for a moment.

'I think from Aragorn,' said Legolas cheerfully and he folded his long limbs beneath him whilst Gimli rose and carefully splashed water on his face.

'Gah! You said warm!' he spluttered. 'This is almost frozen.'

'Warm-ish I said I think,' Legolas said brightly, running his fingers through his long hair and untangling it briefly.

'You did not.' Gimli discretely washed his private parts, turning his back to Legolas so he could not see.

'Ah. I forgot I was with a much less hardy race. I do apologise.'

Gimli muttered to himself and glared at the grinning Elf sitting cross-legged on Gimli's bed. He looked like some outsized grasshopper with his crossed legs and pointed ears, overly cheerful and annoying with a loud and irritating call.

Gimli did not feel as clean as he would have liked but anything was better than he had been and he was determined to find some good place to bathe and comb and oil his beard and hair. But clean clothes were mighty welcome and he did not wish to wear his mail shirt at all times. It needed care too, as did his axe. He thought these things to himself as he moved about their tent, pulling on the clean shirt and tunic, fastening a wide belt, and then he sat next to Legolas to pull on some new-ish boots. Gimli paused.

'These are not from a dead Man?' He looked at the Elf cautiously.

Legolas looked suddenly strange and alien. He looked steadily at the Dwarf and said, 'Would it matter if they were or would it matter only if you knew?'

Gimli hesitated. 'Only if I knew,' he decided.

'They do not belong to a dead Man,' declared the Elf firmly. And as Gimli breathed out in relief he added, 'They are yours now.' He unfolded his overly long legs and rose swiftly, then disappeared outside before Gimli could speak.

Gimli ground his teeth and chewed his beard and counted to ten and then another ten, and then he recited the Tables of Minerals. He got to the fortieth rule of mithril before he could draw a breath and followed Legolas outside.

The day was bright and clear. Rain had washed the sky clean of the polluting smoke and Nazgul, Gimli thought to himself. But then he looked East and saw the huge massing of low cloud again hanging over the dark mountains. Men were stirring around them and the sounds of a camp in the early morning surrounded him. Quiet voices calling greetings, the thin clash of pots somewhere and a few Men - early risers- moved about. He looked around but could not see Legolas at first. But then he heard loud whinnies and stamping hoofs beyond the cluster of tents. He moved between the tents towards the sound, treading carefully through the thick mud.

A small herd of horses were being driven along the muddy lanes between the tents. And Legolas was almost dancing before them. The horse in the lead was prancing about and shaking its head, sliding a little on the slippery mud and snorting, spitting, as Gimli saw it, great streamers of saliva and snot towards the Elf who simply laughed delightedly. The other horses nosed closer, pushing and nipping at each other to reach the Elf.

'Gimli! Look! It is Arod!' called the Elf over his shoulder and reaching his arms around the beast's neck. 'The horses have arrived.'

'Oh good,' muttered Gimli. But in spite of himself he was strangely pleased to see the small horse that was so fiery and restive and loyal. Why Legolas said the damn thing was like a Dwarf though, he did not know.

After what Gimli thought was an unnecessary amount of time petting and stroking and scratching its ears and tender murmurings of what a good horse he was, Legolas finally detached himself from Arod and let the animal go to find food and water. Which is just what we should do, thought Gimli.

'We will go to Aragorn's tent and see if he is there. Other folk might be there too. We can ask for news,' Legolas said and Gimli thought he detected a strange excitement in the Elf, but he could not think why.

Xxoxo

Aragorn was sitting at a small desk and writing orders to be taken to various commanders of the army, to the various posts in the kingdom. The tent flaps were suddenly pushed aside and he tensed, his hand going straight to Anduril. But the two who entered barely paused in their loud bickering on the differences between a horse and a dwarf.

'Put that thing away, Aragorn,' said Legolas loudly, wobbling the end of the Blade-that-was-Broken with a disapproving and critical look. He sighted along the blade with a sniff of disapproval. Gimli looked at it even more critically, testing the edge with his thumb and shaking his head slowly.

'You really should get yourself a decent blade, Aragorn, blades that have been broken never really temper properly. I could get you a really good axe…' he offered.

Aragorn pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed in slowly and out. The Elf and Dwarf, without so much as a by your leave, pulled up a couple of chairs and seated themselves at the folding table that had been set up in the middle of the tent and was laden with new bread, yellow butter and cheese, bunches of deep red grapes and apples. There was a platter of slices of cold roasted meats and a flagon of weak beer. The Dwarf tucked in with relish and Legolas sat beside him and piled a plate with food. Neither took much notice of Aragorn after that, busy picking at each other's irritating habits and weaknesses.

After Aragorn had heard for the fourth time how Dwarves had small hard heads which it would take a dragon to break and Gimli had taken extra offence at the reference to his people's sad history with dragons and Legolas had said they were just careless to leave so much treasure lying around and they were bound to attract the attention of dragons, Aragorn thought he had had enough.

'I am calling a council of all the leaders this morning,' he said looking at them both.

Legolas regarded him with slight boredom and Gimli did not even glance up from his plate.

'It is honourable to show your wealth, ' Gimli continued proudly, as though Aragorn had not even spoken.

Legolas immediately looked away from Aragorn and back at the Dwarf. 'It is stupid to show your wealth to a dragon,' he said.

Aragorn interrupted again, 'I thought you might like to join the council,' he said. 'Your wisdom will be welcome.'

Legolas snorted then like a horse and Gimli grinned widely.

'Of course we will not come to your council, Aragorn,' said the Dwarf. Aragorn thought he had misheard him and opened his mouth to correct him but the Elf jumped in first.

'Preposterous flattery, Aragorn. Firstly - we are not commanders of anyone but ourselves,' Legolas said, taking a huge bite of bread and then meat and then speaking loudly and with his mouth full. '…And a horse is like a Dwarf in more ways than I can count,' he went on, continuing his earlier conversation with Gimli. And then he turned back to Aragorn and spoke even more loudly over Gimli's protests, 'And secondly I am hopeless at councils. My father banished me from councils, said I was the most hopeless advisor, with bad manners, and too reckless for my own good!' He grinned widely, beautifully. Only Legolas could grin with a mouthful of food and still look beautiful, thought Aragorn irritably… except Arwen…

'Then why did he send you to Imladris for the council?' Aragorn asked and was surprised at the petulance in his own voice.

'Oh! He would have been horrified to know there was going to be a council and I was the only one there to represent him!' Legolas waved a chicken leg at Aragorn. 'If you recall, we didn't know there would be a council. That only happened by chance. He would rather have sent his horse to Elrond's Council than me!' He looked pointedly at the Dwarf, then took a large bite from the chicken leg, barely chewing this time.

'And look how we ended up!' added the Dwarf with a significant nod. 'My father, Gloin, is going to be furious with me when he hears who are my friends… not you of course, Aragorn. I think he likes you,' Gimli added charitably. Legolas laughed and threw the chicken bone down and reached for the wedge of cheese with greasy fingers.

Aragorn looked at them in exasperation. He watched Legolas devour the wedge of cheese and tear off bread, swiping it across the butter without even using a knife and caught Gimli's amused look for a moment.

'Face like an angel, manners of an Orc!' the Dwarf muttered.

Legolas simply grinned and added, 'Secondly, we are are going to look for Merry and Pippin and Eowyn.'

'You've already had secondly,' said Gimli smugly, finishing off the bread and meat and wiping crumbs delicately from his mouth.

Legolas waved his correction away with his elegant hand. 'What could our council possibly add?' he appealed to Gimli. Gimli shrugged and shook his head.

'On this one single occasion, you may be right,' conceded the Dwarf graciously, and they returned to the subject of Dwarves and horses.

Aragorn sighed and turned back to his letters. He had not really wanted their council, just their company. He suddenly felt the weight of expectation in his shoulders and it bowed him down. What if he was wrong? What if he failed? He had barely slept, so many folk had brought their kin to him for healing and he had laboured most of the night and only slipped away in the grey dawn. Gandalf had walked with him and told him to call a council, that he would meet him later - he had something to do first.

And Aragorn had watched as the Wizard had casually taken clothes and boots from a guardroom store. 'For our scruffy friends,' he had said, but in the blue eyes there had been a sadness as well as a twinkle. Aragorn's pen scratched again at the paper, remembering.

He was aware of movement behind him and felt warmth against his back and Legolas was there. His strong hand squeezed Aragorn's shoulders then and the same green light suffused the air around him whenever the Elf was close.

'Have faith in yourself, Aragorn. You no longer need us but we are with you anyway. '

Aragorn felt a great rush of gratitude for his two dear friends and he wondered what on earth he would do when they finally left and went home.

'You know we will simply do whatever you do anyway.' the Elf added light-heartedly.

'Aye,' the Dwarf rumbled, 'go on some foolhardy quest, nine rather disparate companions against the might of Mordor, fight Saruman's monstrous army, walk the Paths of the Dead, face Sauron's fearsome lot with a mere handful of aid, face ridiculous odds… what are we waiting for?'

Gimli stood up, wiped his mouth and carefully brushed the crumbs from his tunic and combed his clever square fingers through his beard. Aragorn noticed as though seeing him for the first time, he did not wear his mail shirt or helm and although he still had his axe, the small armoury that was the Dwarf's customary personal arsenal was not with him. His long, wiry hair was braided and hung down his back. Then he noticed the bright earth-brown eyes regarded him with amusement.

'I am going to take care of my weapons and shirt,' the Dwarf told him as though reading his mind. 'And Legolas is going to take care of his weapon too I suspect,' he added and Aragorn caught a mischievous gleam in Gimli's eye and smiled. He and Gimli understood each other well, for on the plains of Rohan when they had searched for the Hobbits together and instead found Gandalf they had had many a conversation that circled around their companions who were gone or lost to them.*

When they had gone, Aragorn felt oddly refreshed, as though in their company he had rediscovered his purpose and resolve. He laughed to himself quietly, revived by the strangely comforting bickering that seemed so normal in these extraordinary times.

It was not much later that Gandalf arrived.

Aragorn was aware of a gleam of white, pure and shining out of the corner of his eye, but when he turned it was Gandalf. True it was now Gandalf the White, but the blue eyes that were at once so bright and piercing were also twinkling and kindly. But with the foresight of his ancestors, Aragorn felt some terrible foreboding, some dreadful doom had entered with the Wizard and he suddenly dreaded what he might say.

xoxo

Gandalf paused in the entrance to the tent to look upon the Man who was the salvation of Men. Aragorn bent over the desk for all the world like the boy he had seen many times, poring over some dusty text, laboriously copying the Tengwar script and determined to master it all before sunset. Even now, Gandalf expected to see his tongue peek from the corner of his mouth as he concentrated… and here, in no time at all, was the Man who would be King.

Gandalf sighed. Mortal lives were so fleeting and he found it so hard to take when they were gone. Indeed, he could see in Legolas the same terror of losing those he cherished, and Gandalf knew that he alone would understand once all this was over and the time of the Elves was truly over. A deep sorrow seized him for a moment and deepened even more when he thought of his task now and what he proposed to do. And as he expected, Aragorn did not like it either.

'No.' Aragorn said straightaway.'There is nothing you can say to persuade me that sending Legolas out as bait for a Nazgul is anything but sending him to his death. Even if he survives long enough to convince the Nazgul that it is Pippin who has the Ring, it is not worth the sacrifice.'

Gandalf sighed and lifted his eyebrows. 'It will take very little to convince the Nazgul that Legolas has in fact seen the Ring here in Minas Tirith. He only has to visualise Merry, or indeed Pippin for that matter. And then visualise the Ring.' Gandalf continued doggedly. 'It is the only way to convince Sauron to stop looking in Ithilien. Or in Mordor itself, for I fervently hope that Frodo has got as far as Mordor by now…' He paused and his eyes unfocused for a moment. Then shaking himself slightly he went back to Aragorn more aggressively. He was running out of time. 'You have a better idea?'

The man thinned his lips and began to pull on his boots. 'Give me time.'

'We do not have time.' Olórin felt the truth of this even as he stood there in the mortal body, this corporeal form. He felt it in his blood and in his bones.

Aragorn rubbed his hands over his eyes, he looked tired. Creases around his eyes were deep and there were dark shadows.

'We must draw the Eye away from Frodo.' Gandalf spoke even more earnestly now. 'Even if we assault the gates of Mordor itself, he will keep searching and that is where he will spend his resources.' Gandalf stood up, and swept his white robes aside impatiently. 'It matters nothing to him to lose this battle or another if he regains the Ring… we will be helpless.'

"And yet Isildur defeated him when he had the Ring.' Aragorn looked up at him defiantly.

This is ridiculous, Gandalf thought to himself and he wished he had gone first to Legolas and asked him directly for he knew the Elf would say yes. But he had felt it was the right thing to speak first to Aragorn about this. He was the King in all but name now.

Instead he explained impatiently, "But we did not really defeat him- he fled his corporeal form only. Unless we defeat him completely this time, destroy the Ring, he will return… again and again.' Gandalf looked the Man steadily in the eye, catching the flicker of defiance, the desperate attempt to save his friend. He steeled himself and said crossly, 'How many times would you fight Dagorlad, Aragorn?'

Aragorn recoiled and turned away then. But Gandalf could see he recognised the truth of it then. At all costs…all costs, the Ring must be destroyed. And they had to distract Sauron now, when his Eye looked to Ithilien and Frodo. They had to find a way to draw the Enemy towards Minas Tirith instead. The quest had always depended on secrecy and stealth. Now more than ever they needed to give Frodo, and Sam he hoped, a small space to creep into Mordor.

'Aragorn, why do you think there were but four Nazgul to fight yesterday? Where do you think the other five are, even as we speak?' Gandalf asked irritably because he liked his own plan no better than Aragorn. But there was no other way. 'The Nazgul rake the lands between Osgiliath, Mordor and Ithilien. They have seen the Ring there!' He bit the angry words before he spoke them. He drew a breath and then, more calmly said, 'Unless we can convince Sauron that the Ring is not on its way to his front door, Frodo will be caught. And we will have lost everything.'

Aragorn stood up restlessly, and leaned his palms flat on the small desk that had been placed in his tent. He had his back to Gandalf and his head was bowed but the wizard knew that this was the only way…or the least worst way. Aragorn paused and then said, 'There is another way.'

'Do tell.' Gandalf was not trying to be sarcastic but this was not something he wanted and it was telling on him. His already frayed temper was rapidly becoming irascible.

Aragorn drew a breath. 'Pippin. '

Gandalf gasped. 'You would not send Pippin out to seek the Nazgul?'

'No! Of course not,' Aragorn said quickly. 'No. But I could show Sauron Pippin through the palantir.' He paused to allow Gandalf to think on it but Gandalf already had. He had wrestled with this for hours and he knew he could only wait until the Man realised this way was the only way. And even then, it was fraught with problems and pitfalls.

'You believe you have the strength to lie to Sauron?' he asked gruffly. 'And what will you show him that will convince him to look for the Ring here instead? You will only show him a Hobbit and that he has already heard or seen in Merry's defeat of the Lord of the Nazgul.'

Aragorn paused. He looked out of the open tent flap and beyond into the sunshine. Grey sky showed and darker clouds scuffed along. Gandalf watched him wrestle with the idea, watched him consider.

'Do you plan to simply let Sauron see Pippin in your own mind?' he demanded.

'Yes…' the Man paused and sighed. 'No. He will have to see that I have Pippin here or he will not believe it. Pippin will have to look into the Palantir.'

Gandalf put his hand on Aragorn's shoulder and turned him to face him. 'To expose Pippin to the Eye …in the Palantir, risks his giving everything away. We are already running out of time.'

'Pippin did not tell him anything last time…' Aragorn searched Gandalf's eyes, desperate, pleading. But Gandalf could not relent.

'Sauron was not expecting him last time. He did not understand the significance. Do you think he would not burn Pippin to a crisp if he thought Pippin had the Ring?' And suddenly Gandalf stepped back and sighed.

Aragorn picked at a scab that had formed on his knuckles. He looked utterly miserable and Gandalf felt little better.

He said, more gently, 'Legolas is at least a warrior and has faced the Nazgul plenty of times of Mirkwood. And he was not killed last night… it spared him. '

It was Aragorn's turn to be furious. 'It was disturbed!' he cried. 'And your idea that he can slip into cuivëar when the Nazgul probes his mind again is tantamount to murder!'

Then, as Gandalf knew he would, the yet uncrowned King of Gondor sighed. He turned away and looked down at the dispatches he had been writing and fingered the quill. 'I cannot…' He sat heavily on the wooden chair and pressed his hands over his eyes. 'I have already wronged him by bringing him here. I led him to cuivëar. In this we are sending him to his death.'

Head bowed, Gandalf tried to think, as he had for hours and hours since the Elf had left him. He had tried to see what the future held should they tread this path but all he could see, hear was that since he had resolved on this plan, the notes of the Great Song, the symphonies that wound and spiralled, had come back into harmony. And he knew… he knew in his bones, that this was right.

'Legolas is an Elf…' Even to himself, Gandalf thought he sounded weak. 'He alone can withstand the Nazgul. And he will go into cuivëar…when… when it becomes unbearable.'

'And then he will be killed or taken... ' There was such anguish in the Man's voice. He pushed himself to his feet and almost threw himself at Gandalf's feet, kneeling before him, grey eyes raised earnestly to Gandalf's. 'Do we have to do anything? If we just ride out and meet him, as we planned, will it not be enough?' His hands clutched the white robe. 'I cannot do this, Gandalf. I cannot send him into such danger. He will die.'

'Is that not what you are doing anyway?' the Wizard asked gently. 'When we ride to the Black Gates, our tiny army facing the might of Mordor, do we not to expect to be riding to our death?'

'It is not the same! In battle, you kill, maybe die, maybe live…This is sending him to his certain death, or capture and torture.'

Ah, Gandalf sighed. This was indeed the hardest bit. 'If the Nazgul kills him, there is nothing we can do anyway. If it captures him and takes him to Minas Morgul, by the time they have broken him, it will be too late anyway… But I will not let that happen. I have thought of that too…' Gandalf squeezed his eyes closed for a minute. 'I will send someone with him…An archer,' he said. 'He will not be taken.'

Aragorn looked up aghast. 'You mean an assassin,' he said bluntly.

Gandalf winced but he would not shy away from the truth. 'Yes. You would not wish him to be taken. Legolas himself has done this for elves in Mirkwood. They have a name for it… '

'I know!' Aragorn pushed away from Gandalf, leaped to his feet, almost shouting. He pushed his hand through his hair and looked at the Wizard appalled. 'You ask me to command murder. Of my friend. He has followed me…' The Man choked on sudden tears.

Gandalf suddenly felt very old. 'Is that not what I have already done in sending off Frodo and Sam into Mordor? This is the only chance we have to buy Frodo time, Aragorn. Do you think I would even think of this otherwise?' He felt his own voice crack. 'Do you not think my heart will break?'

'I cannot.. I cannot do this, I cannot send Legolas to his death. Either the Nazgul will kill him or this… assassin will kill him.' Voice laced with disgust, Aragorn hid his face in his hands. 'Who will you send with him? Gimli will go, though it will be the end for them both,' he said tonelessly. And Gandalf knew how much pain the Man was in, but a king makes such sacrifices. Had he not already?

'No. It will have to be an archer…A good one.' Gandalf swallowed. 'An axe is not a clean kill and it may be… the shot… or shots,' he added carefully, 'have some distance to go.'

'Then it will be Elladan, or Elrohir if not,' said Aragorn horrified at himself for even speaking it. For a moment, he looked very young, very vulnerable as he stared at the Wizard for a moment and then bowed his head.

Gandalf felt small joy in his victory. It would be a little time they bought with Legolas' death, a matter of days perhaps, maybe a week. 'An archer will have time to escape himself on a fast horse. If it is one of your brothers you think we should send, he will survive.'

Patting Aragorn's shoulder gently he continued, almost to himself, 'No one else must know of the Ring. If anyone else should encounter the Nazgul, they will not be able to withstand the assault. And Sauron will know everything.'

'How will we tell Legolas?' Aragorn moaned quietly, his head still in his hands. 'I have already taken everything from him. He has lost his home, he should have been there to defend it. You saw what Saruman showed us… I cannot get it out of my head… And then the gulls… I never even thought about him, what it would mean. I knew there were gulls here and I never even thought… I cannot ask it of him. You must. I cannot live with his doing this for me.''

Gandalf laid a firm hand on the Man's shoulder. 'I will ask him. You need not be the one. And he will say yes if I ask it.'

Aragorn groaned aloud and it was from the bottom of his soul.

Breathing a deep sigh, Gandalf straightened and gazed away into the middle distance, blasphemously cursing the Valar who had sent him. For a few days, a week, Sauron and the Nazgul would throw all their might at Gondor, believing that the Ring was here in Minas Tirith. He did not tell Aragorn the last thing he had seen in Legolas' mind before Elrohir had stopped him… a gleam in the corner of the Nazgul's mind. But that gleam was unmistakable to one who knew. Frodo's mithril shirt. It had been there in the Nazgul's mind but the Nazgul did not know its significance. Sauron had it. That meant either Frodo was dead or had been captured or had abandoned the shirt.

xoxoxo

tbc

* At the start of Deeper Than Breathing, my first story, Legolas has joined Eomer and goes to Edoras instead of continuing the hunt for the Hobbits. Aragorn and Gimli hunt for the Hobbits alone.


	18. Cake and Ale and Smoke

Disclaimer: All Tolkien's of course, I'm just playing with the elves.

Beta-read by the amazing Anarithilien.

Warnings: none for this chapter- light and fluffy

* marks quotes from LOTR or dialogue from LOTR.

Chapter 18: Cake and ale and smoke.

Gimli stamped his feet on the earth and felt the hard rock beneath. He crumbled soil between his fingers and stared at the rich red-brown. He sniffed. Nothing worth mining. Maybe some iron in there somewhere. Better for farming. He shrugged the oversized tunic over his shoulders more comfortably and waited for Legolas to catch up.

While he waited for Legolas to return from checking on Nestor and Anor, he gazed out over the crumbling wall and thought the morning was strange; over the city and to the west, the sky was fair with light clouds and the wind turning westwards.* But away in the East, the clouds gathered, bruised and angry, roiling over the dark mountains. To Gimli they seemed immovable against the wind.

He spotted Legolas coming towards him between the tents, amongst a crowd of other folk, men from all the parts of Gondor. A heavy cart trundled past and Legolas stepped out of its way. Watery mud splashed up as the wheel crashed through but, to the dwarf's intense irritation, Legolas simply side-stepped before he got splashed.

'Don't just stand there daydreaming all day, Legolas,' he called out. 'There is good stone here and I shall need to inspect their citadel to see if it can yet withstand another assault.' As he passed through the city gate, he tapped the limestone walls that gleamed in the sunlight and gave the city its name, the White City.

There were many more people about today, Gimli noted as they walked through the streets. Men stopped to stare at them but it was more at Legolas they stared. Gimli knew that men did not perceive dwarves with distrust; they thought them more alike than not. Gimli himself was used to crowds of men for he often went to Dale and Esgaroth and treated with men frequently.

But it was difficult for them to ignore Legolas. He strode amongst them like something from the ancient tales with his pointed ears and his long hair and outlandish manners. He laughed too loudly and sang as he walked.

'Suiliad elleth velui,

An i 'aer a in elin!

Telo, medo, a sogo uin mereth-milÊl síla or lû o govaded vin, peden

Meleth-e-guilen, Pen velui

Sen enni peden

Ech pân i olthannen

Garo sen enni

Elo, elo, pedech, cenin i cyruch be vaethor avo belegasech erui!

Annorn! annorn! Ai, te i had!'

He sang in a clear voice, and very loudly. It was not one of those long, sad ballads the Elves in Lothlorien had sung. No, this was jaunty, cheerful, and, Gimli guessed, highly unsuitable for a comrade of the new King Returned. The fact that it was in Legolas' own tongue at least meant that the folk of the the city did not understand the words, but smiled and found themselves walking along or nodding their heads in time to the tune, humming.

'Is that a new song?' he asked with a disapproving look in the elf's direction. 'It would be more discrete if you at least sang less loudly,' he suggested. 'Or perhaps…maybe you could sing something heroic…How about that Gil-Galad song? Maybe not,' he added hastily remembering the words Legolas had sung on the way from the Paths of the Dead. That would not do.

Legolas gave him one of his blinding smiles and Gimli could not help but smile back at such joy and exuberance. 'I have composed this one myself,' the elf said with a touch of innocent pride that did not fool Gimli one bit. 'The second part needs some improvement.' He glanced at the dwarf's stern face and a hint of a smile played about his lips. 'Gimli, it is these boots,' he said penitently looking down at his feet. 'They are too small and pinch. I have to distract myself somehow.'

'Aye, nothing worse than boots not big enough,' the dwarf muttered virtuously. Legolas laughed and tugged the tunic down a little, for that was too small. Gimli thought it too short for modesty; the elf was taller than the men here.

Gimli stroked his beard as he stared about, quickly taking the measure of the stone walls and the masonry. There was some good stonework here and there, but there were also places where the workmanship was downright shoddy.

By the time though they had reached the fourth level Legolas had stopped singing - to Gimli's relief - and gradually he had grown quieter. He stopped frequently and gazed up at the sky perturbed, as if expecting rocks to rain down on them from Nazgul, thought Gimli.

After the fourth turn in a street and yet another confusing junction, they had to climb over the rubble that had still not been cleared from the siege, Gimli declared that the planning of the streets was scandalously poor and could be much improved. 'When Aragorn comes into his own,' he added, 'I shall offer him the service of the stonewrights of the Mountain, and we will make this a town to be proud of.'*

He tapped his knuckles against a crumbling wall and it slowly toppled, in a little cloud of dust. Gimli dusted his hands off on his borrowed tunic, and shook his head in disappointment at those who had been responsible for such poor workmanship. He turned to see that Legolas stood a little way back and stared at a point high up on the wall.

'Legolas?' Gimli hurried back to his companion and tugged on his sleeve. The elf shuddered and shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. Gimli stopped and looked closely at the elf.

'What ails you Legolas?' he asked softly. 'We have victory. The Lord of the Nazgul is vanquished and his wraiths are gone, skulking back to Mordor with their tails between their legs…for the moment anyway.'

But Legolas said distantly, 'The houses here are dead, there is is too little here that grows and is glad.'* He suddenly stared into Gimli's eyes and the dwarf felt the world tilt.

'If Aragorn comes into his own, the people of the Wood shall bring him birds that sing and trees that do not die,'* the elf said, almost to himself and his eyes were focused elsewhere.

Gimli frowned. 'If?' he asked gently, 'you mean when of course.'

Legolas looked suddenly afraid and he grasped Gimli's arm like he was falling. He looked away, up towards the mountains that loomed above, and he rubbed his fingers together as if they prickled. 'I am unquiet here where the Nazgul were,' he said anxiously. 'My heart forbodes ill. Let us leave this place.'

'These moments with you always give me the Gunud-Dehken.**' The dwarf humphed quietly but he reached out and patted Legolas lightly on his arm. 'You must try to see the city as it will be when Aragorn comes into his own. Do not give in to this despair, Legolas. The Nazgul are far away for the moment at least, brewing up new trouble in Mordor no doubt.'

He tugged Legolas' sleeve lightly and led him away from the crumbled wall that looked like jagged teeth biting the sky. He did not see Legolas gazing anxiously upwards into the sky, way, way beyond the reach of any arrow.

xoxox

Pippin watched Merry anxiously where he lay in bed. Even though it was breakfast time, Merry had gone without once asking where it was. His friend had a large, comfortable room all to himself. It was very clean and the white stone was well-scrubbed, but Pippin felt there was the scent of blood lingering in the air in spite of the herbs and soap used to cleanse the place.

'Stop it, Pip. You're hovering,' said Merry sleepily, and it broke Pippin's heart to hear how weak and weary he was.

'I can't help it, Merry. I'm just not used to seeing you like this. '

'Well heroes need their rest you know,' he said smiling and it took the sting out of his words. Pippin smiled back.

'I thought I'd lost you,' he said simply and grasped Merry's hand.

'Silly old thing,' Merry murmured. Pip found his eyes blinded with tears. Merry was not the only one he worried about. He kept thinking of dear old Frodo, and loyal Sam...

As if he knew, Merry said, 'I know. I've given you a shock, and they are still out there somewhere… under those dark clouds. '

'D'you think .. .?' Pippin couldn't finish his question.

'Oh yes,' Merry said bravely as always. 'It'll take more than a few nasty Orcs to beat our Frodo. And he's got Sam. And I think there will be all sorts of other folk on the way that will give them help. You never know, as the Old Gaffer says, where the next meal is coming from!' he laughed gently and clutched his ribs. 'Ooh, don't me make me laugh, Pip. It hurts.'

'That was you as made us both laugh then, Merry,' Pippin said reprovingly.

Merry lay gently back down against the pillows. His eyes drifted closed again and Pippin could not bear that, not after he had been so close to death so he said, 'I wonder where Gimli and Legolas are. Do you think they might visit?'

'I expect so, Pip,' murmured Merry. 'I missed you terribly when you left with Gandalf, you know. And I hate to think of you on your own during the siege.' Merry shuddered. 'It sounds terrible. I don't know which is worse, to be holed up here with nowhere to run or hide, or to be out there amongst the orcs and trolls and mumakils… I tell you what, Pip. They won't believe us back home.' He shook his head.

'And you killed the Nazgul,' Pippin said. He was still in awe of his cousin, looked at him like he was a hero from an ancient song, looked on him with the same admiration he looked at Strider or Gimli or Legolas.

Merry nudged him and laughed. 'Fool of a Took,' he said affectionately.

'Do you know how many times Gandalf said that to me when we were riding here!' protested Pippin. 'And that wasn't the least either. He called me all sorts of names. '

Then Merry opened his eyes and gave Pippin an astute look. 'Are you worried? About Legolas? Strider said he had been injured but was recovered.'

'Well, he was a bit vague, don't you think? And he did not say he was actually recovered he said he was well enough.' Pippin sat beside Merry's bed and leaned his elbow on his knees, looking down at the stone floor. He thought about Galadriel's message to Legolas, about the gulls, and the fact that he had ignored the warning and come anyway.

'I don't think much right now, Pip. I am just glad to be alive to be honest with you. And Legolas is alive, Strider said, and Gimli. And Gandalf is here. That will have to do us for the moment until we see our friends.' Merry's eyes drifted closed again and Pippin thought he was asleep.

Pippin closed his eyes and thought about everything. He thought about Strider being King, and Boromir who had fallen defending him and Merry. And he thought about Legolas and Galadriel's message to him, because they had come to the shores where gulls cried and all of Galadriel's other messages had come true. That must mean that Legolas was going to die. Pippin suddenly needed to tell Merry… but looking at the weary hobbit, head on one side, sleeping and a blanket tucked around him, the last thing Pippin wanted to do was to upset him anymore. He quietly hoped that everything with his friends was well, and thought too of the other two hobbits, in that far land under the gloomy clouds and where there were armies of orcs, and the Nazgul and…Pippin swiped at his eye with his hand and wished with all his heart he could help everyone.

xoxoxo

After Merry had woken and a tall, quiet spoken man had helped him to move to a chair, Pippin had gone and found a second breakfast. Only Merry did not want it so Pippin had to eat it all himself, and now his stomach was really quite full.

He perched on the windowsill and leaned out of the tall window, looking down into the square below. A fountain splashed into a clear pool, and ancient lime trees leaned over the paved area. In the Summer he was sure they would give shade. Small groups of people were gathered there.

'There are lots more people down there, Merry,' he said brightly. 'Look, there are some of the Rohirrim warriors standing on the steps. They must have been injured and been brought up here to be healed.' He knew Merry liked the Rohirrim and Pippin hoped it would be enough to stir his cousin into getting up from his chair to join him at the window.

'Yes, there were so many injuries,' was all Merry said listlessly.

Pippin sighed. He tried again. 'Have you noticed the Gondor folk are all dark with pale skin, and the Rohirrim are blond. Isn't that funny. You can see how Boromir and Strider came from these parts. You'd never mistake them for Rohirrim.'

But Merry said nothing, just stared at the blanket tucked around him, as if seeing something else entirely.

Pippin glanced out of the window again and was just about to come in and sit with Merry when there was a slight commotion at the entrance to the square. Heads turned to look down one of the streets. Pippin leaned forwards to try to see what was happening. He held the edge of the window and leaned out as far as he dared.

'Careful Pip, you'll fall! Come back in!'

Merry sounded alarmed but Pip knew he was fine. He leaned out a little further and then caught it…someone was singing… A catchy little tune and Pippin found himself strangely excited, his foot tapped along. The people in the square seemed to be smiling a bit more too, and they turned their heads to see who it was that sang. A few of the able-bodied soldiers moved a little towards the direction of the singing and there was a ripple of laughter. Pippin held his breath and then into the sunlight strode a tall elf and the sunlight caught in his long hair.

'Oooh! It's Legolas!' he called delightedly, and wriggled back from the window. He felt like whooping and shouting.

'Legolas? Where?' demanded Merry and the hobbit struggled up from his chair and to Pippin's delight, joined him at the window just as a stocky, strong dwarf, frowning and stroking his abundant chestnut beard, came into view.

'Look! Gimli too!' cried Pippin joyfully. 'Legolas! Gimli!' he called and waved madly.

Legolas looked up and his face broke into a delighted smile. He jogged Gimli's arm and pointed and Gimli too laughed and waved back.

'Let's go down and meet them,' Pippin said hopefully.

Their progress was slower than it once would have been, but Pippin was so glad to see Merry's face light up at the prospect of seeing their friends that he decided to push away his other fears firmly and concentrate on making Merry smile.

Along this upper storey, there were many pale wooden doors leading off on the same side as Merry's room, and on the other side, long windows opened onto a shadey garden. The garden was prettily planted and there were trees and somewhere there was running water, a fountain. The two hobbits had barely begun to descend the wide stone steps when they heard the commotion of elf and dwarf enter the Houses of Healing.

'My lady.'

That was Gimli, thought Pippin, speaking to one of the healers or one of the women who kept the Houses so spotlessly clean.

'Could you direct us to our good friends, Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrine Took?' Gimli was always so courteous, he thought.

A woman's voice said shyly, 'The Lords Perrian are up those stairs my lords. I can show you if you want?'

There was a sudden flurry of women's voices and excitement and sudden giggling and then Gimli's voice came again sounding louder and a little more irritated.

'Fear not, my lady, I think we can find our way up the stairs without an escort. Come, Legolas, our friends await!'

Pippin hopped onto the wide stone staircase and leaned over the wrought iron handrail. 'Legolas! Gimli!' he called, peering down. 'Up here!'

The two companions came leaping up the steps and suddenly Pippin was surrounded by arms and warmth and the smells and scents of their companions, leather and horses and iron and hay. They were gentler with Merry. Legolas tilted his head to look at the hobbit and then he leaned forwards, putting his hand on Merry's shoulder. He whispered something Pippin could not hear but Merry smiled and looked suddenly peaceful and content. The haunted shadows in his eyes seemed to dim.

'Well? Do I pass?' Merry asked more brightly than he had sounded since Pippin had found him.

'We can sit in the garden!' said Pippin, delighted to see Merry looking so much better.

The garden was reached by a door further along the corridor and they walked slowly, chatting and laughing and swapping news. Sunlight spread over the limestone paved floor and a small group of women had gathered in the passageway, talking excitedly and still clutching bundles of cloth or buckets. The women stopped talking as they approached and stared wide-eyed. Gimli bowed politely to them and they curtsied, but when Legolas smiled at them they started giggling like girls. Gimli raised his eyes to heaven and sighed.

Legolas grinned at Pippin and he grinned back. He wanted to dance and shout now that such danger had passed. He was not the Fool of a Took that he once was and knew there was more ahead, but for the moment, he just wanted to enjoy being together in the sunshine. And Merry and Gimli were in desperate need of cheering up, he thought to himself pleased.

'That was a very nice song you were singing, Legolas,' he said cheerfully and the elf gave him a conspiratorial sidelong glance. 'Will you not teach it to me?' he asked innocently.

'No he will not.' Gimli turned and glared at them both. 'It is…unsuitable.'

Pippin snorted aloud by mistake and Merry threw him a warning glance. But Legolas said with innocence equal only to Pippin's, 'Of course I will teach it to you, Pippin. In fact, I need some help with it,' he said as they reached the door to the garden.

Pippin opened it with a flourish, letting the others go through first. 'Good. I am well known in the Shire for my musical arrangements.'

'It is a sad song,' Legolas said sounding very encouraged, thought Pippin. They went through the high arched door and into the garden. 'It is about thwarted love… I have not yet finished it.'

'Oh, it is your own?' asked Pippin with interest. 'Your own songs are…' Pippin groped for a polite way to describe Legolas' own songs. 'Well.. they are not necessarily the sort of songs songs you hear in Elrond's halls,' he struggled gallantly. 'But always delightful. It is a shame that not everyone appreciates them.' He followed Legolas as he sauntered out into the sunlit garden and they joined Gimli and Merry. Gimli was settling Merry carefully in a low chair.

Legolas smiled benignly and sat upon the green lawn. Pippin settled next to the elf, looking up at him expectantly. Giving him a quick, mischievous glance, Legolas then folded his hands behind his head and leaned back against an ancient tree that spread its branches over them. 'It is about a beautiful maiden and her lover,' he said gravely. "That's me,' he added slyly. Gimli groaned. 'They are … We are… enjoying ourselves greatly. Let me sing it to you and you can tell me what you think. I will sing it to you in my own tongue and then in Westron.'

'That is very helpful of you, Legolas,' Pippin said encouragingly, leaning back against the same tree.

Legolas sang the first few lines loudly and clearly. 'Suiliad elleth velui,

An i 'aer a in elin!

Telo, medo, a sogo uin mereth-mil

Êl síla or lû o govaded vin, peden

Meleth-e-guilen, Pen velui'

Gimli hushed him quickly, looking around scandalised. "You do not know if there are folk here who can understand the words,' he said. Merry laughed softly and Legolas looked aggrieved.

'I think it's charming,' Pippin whispered.

'Thank you,' said Legolas whispering back loudly, 'I knew you would appreciate it. Others' he glanced teasingly at the dwarf, ' do not have your ear for music. I suppose I will have to translate it for you later.'

'You are too kind,' Pippin said and beamed at Legolas.

The sunlight warmed them and in the early Spring, the very air seemed excited and full of promise. Small green shoots eased their way through the soil and a light dusting of green was on the branches of the ancient trees that shaded the garden. Somewhere another fountain splashed and a small bird flitted above them.

'Now, Merry,' Gimli turned to the hobbit conversationally. 'You will recall that when we left you in Rohan, you were supposed to stay with Eowyn, which, I will concede, you did. But the command, I think, was to stay in Rohan with Eowyn.' He tugged the blanket up around Merry and tucked it around him quite tightly. Merry looked mildly irritated and Legolas smothered a smile.

'Ah well, as you say, it was Eowyn's fault. She did insist on going and it was only gallant to go with her,' Merry said more cheerfully than Pippin had seen him since he had awoken. He then pulled the blanket out.

Legolas laughed and breathed deeply as if he had been slowly suffocating, smelling the air. 'That is a winter-jasmine.' He pointed to a small yellow flower that scrambled over a stone wall. 'And I can smell camomile. Eowyn is here somewhere too.' He twined a small white flower between his long fingers and smiled at Pippin. 'Is she awake?'

'Yes, she is, but she is very sad,' Pippin said. "When Merry is well enough he and I will go see her. I think we will cheer her up. You should come too.'

'Yes, I intend to see her today if I can,' said Legolas. 'I am checking on all my friends.' He looked up into the blue sky for a moment and then added, 'I have some explaining to do.' But he did not say to whom or what he had to explain. When Pippin glanced enquiringly at Gimli, the dwarf just shrugged.

'Ah, Merry, Pippin,' Gimli suddenly said, 'To see you like this does my heart much good. And I have needed it indeed.' He gently placed his square hand on Merry's shoulder and smiled at him, his voice was soft and his eyes moist. 'Pah! These flowers, nothing but trouble. Give me hayfever,' he said, suddenly turning away and wiping his eyes.

Legolas nudged Pippin and grinned down at him where he sat next to the elf on the grass. It was cool and soft and covered in the small white flowers Legolas had just picked. Not daisies, it was too early for that. Pippin picked one and stared at it, the sunlight catching his eyes and lighting them.

'Well here we are, all alive,' Pippin said with such relief that Gimli laughed.

'Only just!' declared Legolas, 'Have I told you yet how many orcs I have had to kill to save this one's tough hide?' he said lightly, his eyes gleaming.

'Not as many as I have had to kill to save your tender one,' rejoined Gimli with spirit and his eyes gleamed too. Pippin sat back and leaned against Merry. Merry closed his eyes and smiled whilst elf and dwarf bickered cheerfully.

'This is just like the old days!' Pippin wriggled round to look up at Merry. 'We should have some ale to celebrate!' he cried.

'And cake,'added Merry.

'And I have Longbottom Leaf,' added Gimli and he nudged Merry.

Merry paused for a moment and then smiled and nodded. 'Yes. I think I would like that,' he said slowly, as if remembering something sad and sweet.

'Won it off Aragorn yesterday, after the battle,' Gimli patted the pockets of his borrowed tunic and pulled out a pouch. 'He wagered me that Legolas ….ah…' he glanced nervously at the elf who was glaring at him. 'Never mind. Of course winning a bet against Aragorn is like taking emeralds from Dale*,' he said grinning. 'Too easy by far.'

Pippin was not sure if the dangerous look Legolas sent the dwarf was because of the reference to emeralds and Dale, or the bet he had with Strider. But he wasn't going to ask. Gimli just gave him a big gleaming grin.

'Go and get our friends their refreshments, Legolas, there's a good fellow.' said Gimli and he laughed again, showing his teeth so Legolas shook his head and smiled too. All was forgiven.

As the elf rose to his feet, he asked 'Are they yet accustomed here to the habits of hobbits? Is this your second breakfast, third breakfast, or elevenses?'

'I have only had second breakfast actually, because Merry didn't want his,' said Pippin proudly.'So it's my elevenses, Merry's first breakfast and your… um…whatever it is that you have.'

Legolas went back into the Houses and the hobbits and dwarf unfolded pouches and pipes and swapped pipeweed and by the time the elf returned balancing plates and cakes and a jug of ale with four mugs hooked on his fingers, there was a small cloud of smoke around the three. Legolas coughed showily.

'It is as I imagine Mount Doom in the time of the forging of the you-know-what!' declared the elf, putting the cake and jug down carefully and then throwing cups and plates towards each of them so they had to grip their pipes and catch the cutlery.

'Not a drop spilt!' declared Pippin victoriously.

Legolas dropped down beside Pippin again. He looked about the garden again, slowly, and watched the small bird that had now fluttered down onto the grass and studied them as intently as an elf. 'I will bring Sam here when all is done,' he murmured quietly.

Pippin blinked suddenly and raised his cup. 'To Sam,' he said quietly. And one by one they raised their cups to each other in memory of those who were not with them.

The sun had briefly gone behind a cloud, but this was a white fluffy one, not one of the dark, low clouds that seemed to belch from the Mountains of Mordor. Yet almost immediately the sun came out again, and flooded them with warmth and brightness. High above them came a flash of white and piercing call from the white seabirds that flocked about the citadel.

*'Look!' Legolas cried, and his eyes followed the birds, gleaming white in the sunlight. 'Gulls! They are flying far inland.' He watched them, rapt. Pippin remembered the words of Galadriel that he had overheard in Edoras the night he had looked into the Palantir, and he stared at Legolas with a sudden foreboding.

'A wonder they are to me and a trouble to my heart.' Legolas murmured almost to himself now, but Pippin saw Gimli rub his eyes and knew they all listened. 'Never in all my life had I met them, until we came to Pelargir, and there I heard them crying in the air as we rode to the battle of the ships.'

'And I will never forget how you stood there lost and almost let yourself be killed,' muttered the dwarf. 'If it had not been for the Son of Elrond, you would have died.' Pippin stared at him, aghast. Legolas had been injured in that battle, Strider had told them. It must have been when he saw the gulls.

Legolas glanced over at the dwarf and smiled at him gently. 'Aye. I stood still, forgetting war in Middle Earth; for their wailing voices spoke to me of the Sea. The Sea! Alas! I have not yet beheld it. But deep in the hearts of all my kindred lies the sea-longing, which it is perilous to stir. Alas! for the gulls. No peace shall I have again under beech or under elm.' He sounded so bereft that Pippin felt his heart squeeze.

'Say not so!' said Gimli suddenly, and he put his hand on Legolas' shoulder and turned the elf's face away from the gulls and towards him. He held Legolas' green eyes with his own. 'Here are countless things still to see in Middle Earth, and great works to do. But if all the fair folk take to the Havens, it will be a duller world for those doomed to stay.'

Pippin thought Gimli's eyes had a soft gleam in them and he wondered if they were tears. If Legolas really would leave them all for the Havens…what then? If all the elves left…and suddenly Pippin thought Gimli was right. He thought of how Legolas had cheered them all with his bawdy songs and his teasing of Gimli and Aragorn, and even Gandalf occasionally, and he had soothed them too on the long march from Rivendell, with his ballads and lullabies and his indefatigable strength. He thought of how the orcs would overrun Middle earth without Legolas and the elves, and suddenly it became very dark for Pippin.

'Dull and dreary indeed!' said Merry, struggling to sit up and reach over to Legolas. He caught the elf's hand in his smaller one and Pippin had to turn away because he suddenly felt all the emotion and pressure of the last few days heap upon him. He felt his heart would burst. 'You must not go to the Havens, Legolas. There will always be some folk, big or little, and even a few wise dwarves like Gimli who need you. At least I hope so.'

Pippin glanced at Legolas, and the elf dragged his gaze back from the gulls to his companions, but it was an effort Pippin could see and his eyes kept wandering back to the river. Gimli looked away.

Merry smiled and Pippin could hardly bear it. 'Though I feel somewhat the worst of this war is still to come. How I wish it were all done and well over!'

Pippin rubbed his hands over his face, he could not bear it. 'Don't be so gloomy!' he cried desperately. 'The Sun is shining, and here we are together for a day or two at least.' He cast about for a way of diverting them all from such despair. 'I want to hear more about you all. Come Gimli, you and Legolas have mentioned your strange journey with Strider about a dozen times already this morning but you have told me nothing about it.'*

Gimli shuddered and it was Legolas who told them of their journey on the Paths of the Dead, but Pippin only listened with half an ear. He was watching Merry, who listened with more interest than he had shown in anything else since Pippin found him stumbling behind those who bore Eowyn to the Houses of Healing. He saw too, how Gimli watched Legolas in the way he watched Merry. And finally, he watched Legolas, and noted the way his eyes were ever drawn skywards and west. Yet he was strangely quiet when Gimli berated him for getting shot by an arrow at Pelargir and he said nothing at all about the journey on the ship. And when Gimli spoke of the courage and strength of the Sons of Elrond and their prowess in battle the elf's eyes turned towards the dwarf with a strange excitement and his hand crept to his chest.

Suddenly Legolas rose and said, 'I would see the Lady Eowyn before we leave. Aragorn has bid us all meet tonight to eat together. We must make the most of the time we have together, as Pippin says.' He looked down at them and the sun lit him from behind.

"Oh, Legolas - before you go, I have message for you from Gandalf,' Merry said suddenly. 'He asked me to tell you he needs to speak with you today.' And Pippin suddenly had a terrible sense of vertigo for a moment and wanted to reach out and hold onto Legolas, to stop him from leaving, from falling. But he shook his head and told himself it was this dreadful time of war.

'Shall I come back this way, Gimli,' Legolas was asking brightly, 'so that you may find your way back to the camp? For I know how your dwarvish senses are befuddled above ground and in the sunlight.'

'I told you you could not rile me, Legolas. And I prove it even as your desperate attempts fall upon stony ground.' Gimli showed his teeth and puffed a cloud of fragrant smoke into the air.

Legolas ignored the dwarf. 'It is always good to have a dwarf around,' he said and as he left he called back, 'Someone has to finish off the very slow and stupid orcs.' He waved his hand at Gimli as he left and made a show of not being able to hear the dwarf's spluttering rejoinder. He waved at them as he left grinning.

TBC

* The lines of dialogue in this section are from ROTK- The Last Debate, but you knew that.

**Gunud-Dekhen: Miner's Breath- a dwarvish phrase. Gunud- delve underground; Dekhen- gasp or struggle for breath. It is a feature of mithril mines which bewitch the dwarf into thinking there is no air left although there is. They take a small miner's lamp with them so they know it is only the enchantment of mithril. (Note: Tolkien seems to have used Hebrew for the derivation of Khuzdul according to many scholars, hence the similarity to some words in Anglo-Saxon and some in Hebrew. Interesting. So I've used it here.)

*** Emeralds and Dale. A local Erebor saying - a Khazad equivalent of our taking candy from a baby. Bard gave Thranduil the emeralds of Dale in a token of thanks for his help with the devastation of Smaug.

Legolas' song… you will see he is NOT a very good composer- too lazy.

Greetings lovely maiden, by the stars and sea

A star shines on the hour of our meeting, said I

Come, eat, and drink of the love-feast (Sexual innuendo in silvan culture.)

Love of my life, lovely one

You are all I dreamed

Hold this for me I say.

My, my, she said, I see your skills as a warrior are not your only greatness!

Harder... harder... Yes! That's the spot!

(Thanks to Hithanaur .net for the translation)

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	19. Gandalf's Request

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Savingfics- what did I tell you about angst? You're just reaching the real angsty bit- hold tight for the next few chapters for really hard reading.

Warning: After the fluff and lightness of the last chapter, here begins the angst and violence - Tolkien's elves are not all ethereal faeries, but full of fire and lust and passion. Read the Silmarillion if you don't believe me!

m/m violence, sexual violence ahead in the next chapters, death and general nastiness beginning with this one although no special warnings for THIS chapter- next one will be nasty.

Disclaimer: Not mine etc

Beta: The wonderful Anarithilien. Thank you as always for making this make sense and readable! Hoping DF gets an update soon please!

 

Chapter 19: Gandalf's request

 

Sunlight shone through the young leaves of the lime trees and Legolas turned his face up as he wandered through the garden. He could still hear their voice. His fingertips brushed the bark as he passed and he felt the tremor of the breeze, the buzz and whirr of life, insects and the sap rising. A small brown bird hopped about and chirruped at him as he passed and he chirruped back. Black beady eyes regarded him seriously and he wondered how it survived in this barren city of stone where there were so few trees and so few gardens. Sam will put that right when they return safely, he thought for he could not bear to think otherwise. And someone had planted lime trees around the square in front of the Houses of Healing. One, he remembered, pressed up against Gandalf's rooms.

Legolas frowned and his hand crept up to his chest and toyed with the thin bandage. He had forgotten that. The panicked visit to Gandalf, the fluttering nervousness in his stomach … He had a dim memory of Elrohir half carrying him, half dragging him… and then Olorin's calm presence, blinding white at first and then calming, settling, gentle and suffusing him with peace. The Wizard had dulled the edge of the yearning found in the sea-longing; he had made it a dim roar, a welcome promise of respite.

It was gone then, the memory. Legolas blinked and looked about him for the way to Eowyn's rooms that Merry had pointed out earlier.

The western side of the Houses of Healing was quieter, shaded by trees. This must have been one of the earliest parts of the city, he thought. He brushed his fingertips against the cool stone as he had against the trees. He heard again the pomp of Gondor, the loss of its grandeur, the blood soaked into its making, echoes of swords clashed and the trumpeting whinny of war horses… but beneath it all, beneath the cacophony of diminished splendour was the mountain itself, and the earth.

He leaned for a moment against the cool stone and listened… a single deep note, like a heavy bronze bell … the stroke of a drop of water across a mirror of water, undisturbed for a thousand years like the thrum of harp strings … creak of stone in the heart of the mountain…he thought then of Gimli's words of Aglarond and smiled.

xoxo

Eowyn lay pale and silent on a bed near the long windows which opened out onto a different part of the garden where the fountain splashed and the sunlight gleamed on the pool. Her golden hair streamed unbound over the pillow and her skin was white. Her eyes were closed and she seemed to be barely breathing.

Legolas knelt sadly by her bedside and lifted her limp hand in his; it felt so cold. Listening to her breathing, he groped for the tremor of life in her pulse, it was there but not strong. In her breathing he felt the misery and sadness of the days of her life, of her fear of being caged and clipped to prevent her flying. Aragorn had called her back but the Black Breath lingered, and when he closed his eyes and listened for her, reached out for her, the fire that he loved about her seemed to be only a flicker. About her clung a darkness.

Loosely holding her hand, the elf breathed with her, seeking the fire within the weakened, frightened thing what was not Eowyn, and he grieved that he might lose her still. Her song was distant so he began to quietly find the notes for her, setting them free. And then she took a deep breath and settled more softly into a sleep that was natural and clean and pure.

He sat with her, so close to her that his breath warmed her cold cheek and the song wound between them. A warmer flush was on her pale skin then and she turned her head with half a sigh and settled again into a deeper sleep.

Sudden movement caught his eye and he glanced into the garden. There was a man, standing half hidden in the shade. Legolas started suddenly and almost stood.

'Boromir!' he whispered.

Surely not? It could not have been. But when he moved to better see, there was a slight tremor in the leaves and the man was gone.

Legolas looked down at Eowyn's face. There was now a soft blush of sleep on her cheeks and her lips were parted in breath. Beautiful she was in body and in her brightly burning soul. He loved her courage and pure spirit and though he was not gifted with foresight, he had a glimpse suddenly ... years from now, silver amongst the golden hair and those crinkles at the side of her eyes…she was laughing and looking up at a man who looked like Boromir…Legolas looked out at the garden again but even his keen eyes could not see the man or where he had gone.

He stayed with her for a long time, until her eyes flickered open and she smiled and lightly he squeezed her hand.

'I am glad you came,' she said, almost too quietly to hear. He had to lean forwards to catch her words. He brushed her golden hair from her pale face and smoothed his hand over her brow.

'Impatient child,' he smiled as he scolded her, as he had at Helm's Deep before. 'Did I not tell you that you had another fate? But your impatience led you here for you could not wait for it to come to you. Well now you will have to.' He glanced up and looked out over the garden. ' But I do not think you will have to wait for long.'

Eowyn reached up and caught his strong hand in hers and brought it to her lips. 'He loved you, did you know? Theoden. He called you his saviour and lord. I loved him. And now…' Then like the cracking of the Helcaraxë, Eowyn, the White Lady, cold Shieldmaiden of the Mark, wept. He lifter her as she buried her face in the elf's chest and sobbed and sobbed until she had nothing left. And Legolas felt his own face wet with tears.

Humming an old lullaby that he used to hum when the Fellowship settled down to sleep and Frodo was restless, Legolas stroked her head and waited until her eyelids fluttered and she drifted back into sleep.

He watched her, smoothing her hair like a sleeping child. The sunlight lit her hair, golden, not the copper-bronze of her brother. Legolas looked away briefly and stared out of the window at the sky. He had caught up to Eomer quickly last night, the man wanting to be caught, hoping there would be more…Legolas had laid his hand gently, insistently on the man's shoulder and the man's body had quivered under his touch. But when it was clear there was no more to give, Eomer had declared he understood, wanting to appear worldly and experienced.

'We are both of age,' he had declared to Legolas. 'And you have always been honest with me about this. You said in Rohan at the start, it is no more than it is.' He had laughed then, as if it didn't matter and Legolas tilted his head to one side, for it mattered to him. But the shine in Eomer's eyes belied the words and Legolas had had to turn away to spare him. There was no more to be said.

The elf leaned his cheek on his hand and although he gazed at Eowyn, his thoughts were elsewhere. He had made such a mess of this, and it was his feelings for Elrohir that had led him to this place, nothing else. For he was tidy with his heart, always in control, seeking pleasure lightly, giving it too. He always finished one affair long before starting another …and he grieved that he had hurt Eomer, but perhaps that was always going to be so. It was Elrohir and his deep, dark passion that had blinded him to all else, even to mistaking Elladan…

He sighed and rubbed his hand over his eyes. He had erred and now he had to find those he had wronged and put things right.

xox

So now he stood on the city wall, shading his eyes with his long hand and gazing across the plains. Below he saw the tented city that clustered up to the walls of Minas Tirith. The fields were charred and scarred with war and the stench of charred corpses hung still in the air. He followed the Anduin as far as he could as it wound its way through the bloodied and ruined fields of Pelennor and through the Lebinnin, and from there onwards. His eyes were drawn inevitably west where the clean blue sky met the sea in the far, far distance where even his eyes could not see.

Legolas swung his arms, looking upwards for a glimpse of the white birds that called to him. In one part of his mind he realised it did not hurt as much to think on them; if anything it gave him a soaring elation and made him want to run all the way to the Sea and throw himself into the waves… He shook his head and laughed brightly at his own fancy, and found himself singing a song of the Lebinnin as he strode down the paved street. He leaped up onto a high wall and ran along its precarious length and then sprang onto the rampart of the city wall, wondering why his feet led him this way.

The day was bright and clear above the city but away in the East, huge clouds were building. Legolas paused to watch them gather and roil over the mountains. If anything they felt more threatening than the great bruised thunderheads that had gathered over the Pelennor fields before battle. There was something there that prickled at the edge of his consciousness, something to do with the Nazgul.

He felt the weight of a gaze upon him and glanced about. Briefly he caught a gleaming white presence, too bright, too pure and then it faded and he saw that it was simply Gandalf. He sat comfortably on a low bench in the brief sunshine. Legolas grinned and was not surprised then that he had come here.

xoxo

Olorin waited, as he had the night before and he listened to the great symphonies and soaring chords of the Music, of the Song. It was coming back into harmony and the dissonance was but a thin thread that trembled along his nerves, ached in his bones. He did not have to wait long, for above him on the teetering edge of the city wall, ridiculously high above a sheer drop on the other side, an elf ran lightly. His face filled with joy and he was singing quietly under his breath a song of the Lebennin. His long flaxen hair was tugged by the west wind as though it conspired to draw him Home. Home. Olorin felt it too.

The Maia tilted his head to one side and regarded this child of the forest, remembering how he had given the gangling creature, Smeagol into this one's care knowing somehow that it had to be that way, knowing that this would bring him to Imladris and thence on this long journey to this city of men. He was meant to be here, even as Smeagol was meant to be where he was, and Merry was meant to be with Eowyn as she struck Angmar. It was all in the Song that circled in its immense, cosmic spirals, its shifts of patterns and huge chords, and the symphonies… this elf was the small piece that would bring it back into harmony.

He watched the elf leap from one crumbling ledge to another, and almost skip along the edge. The Maia felt a pang for what he was about to do… but there was no choice left. Gently, Olorin stirred and brought the other's awareness to himself.

The elf glanced about him suddenly and then grinned with delight as his forest-green eyes caught on the gleaming white presence that was Olorin. The elf's own light burned and was young, like a green shoot of Spring. Then he leapt with hair-raising recklessness from one crumbled bit of wall to another, descending rapidly until he stood before the Wizard.

'Mithrandir!' he sounded pleased, surprised. He wore the plain homespun tunic and dark brown breeches Gandalf had scavenged for him even though he was tall and the borrowed clothes were ill-fitting on him.

Gandalf smiled gently. 'Ah. Young Thranduillion. Good. You found me then,' the wizard said, fingers twitching for a pipe to soothe him through this. He sought to be gentle, to ease their way into this. 'Did you you see our young friends? Is Pippin behaving himself? '

Impossibly, irritatingly flirtatious, even with Gandalf himself, Legolas bowed and smiled sweetly, 'Indeed Mithrandir, Pippin has excelled himself with his musical appreciation, and his wit and humour are undiminished.' He smiled more widely and his eyes searched the wizard's face as if looking for something of which he was almost aware. Gandalf smiled. He knew Legolas was still too young to see him as he really was, but it would come in time. He winced then as he remembered they did not have time.

But Legolas was yet oblivious to Gandalf's dark thoughts and hidden intentions. He threw himself beside the wizard and breathed in the air. Gandalf knew it was the thin scent of the sea on the west wind he breathed, and he winced at the irony. The sea on the air served his purpose.

Legolas glanced at Gandalf's unlit pipe and said generously, 'Go on, I have become used to it. The hobbits wreathed themselves in so much smoke at Orthanc it was hard to tell which was pipe smoke and which was Saruman's dreadful fire.'

'Hmmm,' grunted the Wizard and he puffed on the pipe as he lit it, remembering the hour of Saruman's fall, the awful battle of wills he had fought with his former leader and comrade, never friends. He had never found any warmth in Saruman. 'So you have recovered from that? Good…it was a hard thing to bear.'

'Well, I do not say recovered, but I can speak of it now,' said Legolas soberly. 'I wonder now if I should have chosen to go home after Moria…'

The wizard looked sharply at him. 'There are many choices ahead of us all, Thranduillion. And each choice affects the paths of others. Had you not chosen to let Gollum climb that tree, he would not have escaped. Had you not decided to bring the message yourself, you would not have been the one at the council of Elrond. Had you not chosen to follow Aragorn on the Paths of the Dead, Gimli would not have followed either. And had you not chosen that, you would not have heard the gulls. You are very resourceful. That is one of many reasons I persuaded Elrond to give you this quest and not others.' He peered at Legolas from under his bushy eyebrows. 'We all have things that we must now do.'

Legolas laughed gently and shook his head, then he said, 'Go not to Wizards for counsel, they will say both yea and nay and take their time about it, as Galion used to say.' He looked at the Wizard and smiled cheekily. '"And then you will end up running off on some adventure without a hat,"* as Thranduil always adds.' He cocked his head to one side and regarded Gandalf sharply. 'I have always thought that last bit had something to do with Bilbo Baggins, for whom he has a great fondness.'

Gandalf smiled and puffed on his pipe. A smoke ring hovered above him and turned purple and then green and then blue. 'Bilbo returns the fondness I think. He stood with your father at Erebor.'

'I remember.' Legolas looked down then and rubbed his finger along the edge of the stone bench. He paused and then said quietly, 'I will follow Aragorn still, if that's what you mean, Mithrandir. I will follow him to my death if need be, for the sake of him and Middle Earth.'

Gandalf felt a heaviness settle in his heart. It was this that had brought Legolas to this point; his loyalty, his courage- lightly worn and deeply felt.

There was a pause and then Legolas gave a wry smile and looked away across the city to the river and said, 'You were right about Gimli.'

Gandalf said nothing but puffed silently on his pipe, but he smiled a little sadly.

'He was so afraid on the Paths of the Dead …' the elf continued, looking up into the blue sky. 'But he went anyway.' The Wizard blew a smoke rings that hovered and turned different colours and took shapes, an axe, a bow, a sword.

Gandalf's blue eyes crinkled. 'You were told you would die should you hear the gulls, ' he replied. 'But you went anyway.' A smoke-ship like the Sea-Song drifted for a moment and then disintegrated, then an archer appeared briefly taking aim and drifted…'And here you are.'

Legolas said nothing, but he looked down at the simple brown tunic that Gandalf had left for him, and picked at a loose thread. Gandalf gently put his hand over Legolas's and stilled it.

'It hurts less. Thank you.' Legolas looked at the Wizard's gnarled hand. He did not look up as he said, 'But I cannot feel the woods are my home anymore. All I can hear is the Sea.'

Gandalf said nothing but his fingers squeezed Legolas'. 'It is a blessing also,' he said softly, looking at the Elf's bent head and wishing more than anything he did not have to do this. But why else would the Valar have sent a Woodelf so close to the Sea? Why else would this have happened if it were not a chance to put things right?

'It saved me from the Nazgul I suppose,' Legolas nodded. And Gandalf felt like a traitor as he saw his opening.

'Yes,' he said gently prompting the elf.

'It was strange that I could escape through Cuivëar,' he said almost to himself, looking up and towards the mountains. 'It did not kill me, even stranger still. But I am certain that is only because Elrohir came.'

'Yes, that too was indeed a blessing.' Gandalf steeled himself. 'You might say it was fated… ' Legolas glanced at him and the Wizard saw something else stirred in those green eyes, something he could not define. 'Do you recall at all the thoughts of the Nazgul?'

Legolas shook his head and the Wizard continued softly. 'It had captured and I am afraid, tortured, one of Faramir's Men. Caught in Osgiliath by the Orcs and tortured for information about Minas Tirith I am guessing. But in that interrogation, he must have also revealed to the Nazgul that he had seen something else in Ithilien; a Hobbit with a Ring. And Smeagol. '

Legolas gasped and Gandalf knew he had indeed forgotten until now the Nazgul memories. 'Yes! I saw that … how could I forget? And Sam..' he trailed off… 'I did not see Sam!' He turned to Gandalf distraught.

Gandalf put down his pipe and leaned back against the sun-warmed stone. 'No. Sam was not there. But it does not mean… it does not necessarily mean what you think it means,' said the Wizard briskly. He glanced at the elf. 'What you saw was the Nazgul's image of Frodo. What it saw in your mind was a Hobbit holding the Ring.' Gandalf paused to give time for Legolas to work it out. He had faith in his companion. He only had to wait.

'So the Enemy knows Frodo is in Ithilien…' Legolas said distressed. 'That is why there were but four Nazgul at the battle. The others search for Frodo.' Gandalf watched sadly. He knew Legolas would not disappoint him. The elf's fair face was troubled and when he turned to face Gandalf, he felt like a traitor. 'But they also know that I have seen It and I am in Minas Tirith and have not been to Ithilien,' he said thoughtfully. Legolas was foremost a strategist. Inevitably he reached the conclusion the Wizard had led him towards. 'We need to distract them, to draw them here,' he said.

'Yes.' Gandalf drew on his pipe and sent a smoke dragon to hover around their heads. Legolas watched it, bemused.

'They need to believe that the Hobbit who has the Ring is here, ' the elf said thoughtfully. 'Pippin is here. The Enemy has seen Pippin in the Palantir. And Merry slew the Nazgul-lord.' He smiled thoughtfully.' It is not so hard to make the Enemy believe that we have the Ring here,' he said. 'We simply need to leak this to the Enemy. Denethor must have had spies, and Mordor must have spies here as well. Surely Faramir knows who they are?'

Legolas stretched out his long legs and Gandalf saw with a pang, that the boots he had found for the Elf were a little too small. He could see the Elf's toes pressed against the leather. He knew Legolas would rather suffer discomfort than complain about a gift well meant and for moment he hesitated. Could he really send this elf off to his death?

'Denethor executed all those he knew were spies, I am afraid. He did not see how they might be of use,' Gandalf answered and watched as the elf realised what he was doing.

There was a long silence and Gandalf closed his eyes, waiting, as he had waited the night before, although he had not known it would be Legolas who brought him the way to salvage this terrible wrongness in the Song. And even as he waited, he could hear the dissonance lessen, the symphony soared in his mind and he knew exactly what would happen next. He knew it even as the elf said, 'You have something to ask of me?' Legolas' brilliant green eyes were sharp and focused entirely on Gandalf. In that moment, he looked so much like his father that Gandalf hesitated a moment. If Mirkwood had fallen, then Legolas was possibly the last elf from Mirkwood. Could he really do this?

'Yes. I have,' he said slowly, aware of the bright gaze of the elf. He had always been such an inquisitive child. Gandalf remembered meeting Legolas the first time in Mirkwood, clinging to his oldest brother's leg. But the brightness of the eyes and the sheer curiosity had drawn him and even then he had felt there would be some later time when Legolas would have a role to play beyond the eaves of the forest. He had spared him a little time, wondering and trying to seek the spark that lit him…what would that role be? And here they were, at this place, at this time. It was right. And he knew that of all, Legolas would argue the least, would baulk the least and would do whatever he asked of him.

He began gently. 'We need to create a chance for Frodo… to give him some time. As you say, if we can convince the Enemy that the Ring is here, it will distract Him.'

Legolas stared straight ahead. His arms were straight and hands gripped the edge of the bench. Gandalf noticed that his knuckles were white. 'And you have a plan.'

'Yes.' Gandalf lay his pipe to one side and breathed deeply.

'And your plan involves me?'

So unlike the Imladrian elves were the Silvans from Mirkwood. Many times Gandalf had said they were more dangerous and less wise. Now he wondered if he had judged them too harshly. Ever had Thranduil been an ally and given him aid when he needed it… neither Galadriel nor Elrond would have taken Gollum, even if he would have been safer. Strange that he had known absolutely that Mirkwood was the right place to take him. Legolas was no fool. He was watching Gandalf astutely.

'I think you know that already,' said Gandalf.

He heard the elf give a small ironic laugh, but it was not bitter. 'So your talk of choices and paths was not just idle. Galion is right.' But he did not say how Galion was right. 'You wish for me to put myself in the Nazgul's path. And to suggest that It is here in the city.'

'Yes.' And in that moment, the Song was triumphant, soaring, leaping in Olorin's heart.

'Do you think it will risk coming back here to the city, as it did before?' Legolas picked at the loose thread on his sleeve again and this time, Gandalf did not stop him.

'We cannot wait. Aragorn will march out in three days. We must be sure that Sauron does not ignore him by instead scouring Ithilien and Mordor. For He will soon guess why the Ring travels through Ithilien. It either makes its way to Minas Tirith or to Mordor itself.' He resisted the urge to press harder. He turned to Legolas and held his forest-green gaze. 'Sooner or later they will find Frodo.'

Suddenly the sun broke through the clouds once more and caught on a lone gull. They both stared, watched its slow wingbeats flash white. A long moment passed before Gandalf spoke again.

'You will scout beyond the city. It can find you there and is more likely to approach you.' Gandalf almost winced at how innocuous that sounded, how prosaic. 'You will let it see only the Ring and Merry killing Angmar. Then you will let the …let the Mavoinë* - the Great Longing - into your heart. You will know nothing more…' he said quietly.

'Nothing more.' Legolas let his head fall back against the warm stone wall. He sounded so desolate. But Gandalf had no choice now. One life, one immortal life.

But only moments later Legolas continued, head on one side slightly, 'The Nazgul kill their prey usually. Or they take them captive if they think there is more to be gained.' The observation was practical, thinking through the options, the possibilities. He had accepted it, Gandalf thought, and it had been horribly easy. But this was Legolas Thranduillion, a captain of the Woodland Realm. 'It did not kill me because it was interrupted. Prevented. Ravëyon…I mean Elrohir… Otherwise it would have killed me.'

Gandalf glanced at him from the corner of his eye… that slip. How strange he referred to Elrohir again as Ravëyon.

'So how do I escape this time?' he asked, eyes bright. 'Because then it thought a troop was nearby. Had it stayed it might have lost its steed, and that would have left it in the midst of enemies and on foot. Forced it to flee overland on foot. As it did at the Fords of the Bruinen…So it withdrew…I think,' Legolas was saying dispassionately, objectively.

Aye, there's the rub of it, thought Gandalf. I cannot see a way to rescue you because it would not be convinced…not enough. We cannot take the risk. If Elrohir, or another, were to surprise the Nazgul again, it would not withdraw and I will lose the sons of both Elrond and Thranduil. And if I sent a company of soldiers, it will not dare approach. And if I told Elrohir to shoot the Nazgul's steed, it would cripple the Nazgul and delay its return to Sauron and it might be too late…

But Gandalf did not have to give that dreadful answer for he saw that Legolas too had worked it out already and was sitting patiently, waiting for him to speak, to confirm, to announce his death.

'In the forest we have the milui-criss.' Legolas said after a long silence and he turned to Gandalf as he spoke. 'The Merciful-Cut. It is very hard to do. You will need someone with nerves of steel…Do not ask Gimli.'

'I have someone in mind for the task. It is not Gimli.' Gandalf did not flinch. It was the least he could do.

'Do not tell me his name. Not yet.' Legolas suddenly turned to Gandalf and beseeched, 'Let me believe a while that I might escape.'

Legolas turned his face then up to the sun and bathed in its warmth. He said nothing more but Gandalf lifted his gnarled hand and cupped the elf's cheek gently.

'The journey doesn't end here, ' he said. And his blue eyes went wide in remembrance. 'Death is not the end. Death is just another path.' Legolas turned to stare at the wizard then. Gandalf smiled at the memory, gently and drew a deep sigh of longing. 'The grey veil of this world rolls back and all turns to silver glass and then you see it…white shores, and beyond… the far great country and the swift sunrise.'**

TBC

Translations

Mavoinë* - Quenya - the Great Longing. This is Gandalf's name for Cuivëar. Presumably the Istari experience some extent of the longing for 'home' too. That would make sense - a sort of homesickness.

Milui-criss – Sindarin - as Legolas says, the Merciful Cut. A mercy killing.

* This reference is to the Hobbit. Bilbo does indeed run off with the dwarves without a hat and it bothers him greatly.

** from ROTK film. Gandalf to Pippin -Siege of Minas Tirith.

\-----------------------------------------


	20. The Gift of Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can't believe I didn't post this chapter!! The best one! LOads of sexual tension in this.  
> This is actually chapter 20 and I'll move it to its proper place when I work out how.   
> But I have two chapters of the sequel to this ready so am aiming to start posting that late October.

Beta: Anarithilien. 

 

Warning: Tolkien's elves are not pretty and drift around in some aloof and ethereal faery way. If you have read the Silmarillion you know this.

Warning in this chapter for especially violent behaviour, foul language, and sexually aggressive behaviour. 

ooo000000oooo

Quick summary: Elladan has not seen Legolas since the battle. A lot has happened since then! Legolas had begun his seduction of Elladan when they were interrupted by Nestor's accident. Elladan left Elrohir stitching the wound and the next thing he knows, Legolas is snarling at him that he doesn't want his pity, etc., believing that the brothers have deceived him - which they have but not how he thinks.

Since then Legolas has realised he was mistaken and went to seek them out to apologise, but was interrupted by the Nazgul. He has now realised that Elrohir is the one who brought him to the SeaSong and healed him…and where does that leave Elladan?

o0o0o000oooo0000oooooo

 

Chapter 20: The Gift of Men.

 

Elladan strode down the steps of the Houses of Healing and into the square. A small knot of men lounged beneath the interlaced branches of the lime trees, dusted in the pale green of Spring. One man had his arm in a sling and where his hand should have been, there was a bandaged stump. Another leaned heavily on a crutch. Such were the casualties of War.

One of the men saw Elladan and raised his hand in greeting. Elladan did not recognise him but saw from his blond braids and the white horse emblem on his tunic that he was from Rohan.

'I have recovered my lord, thanks to your kindness,' the man called, and Elladan realised the injured warrior thought he was his brother. He nodded anyway and smiled, although Elrohir rarely did. The man left the small group and wandered towards Elladan. He bowed slightly and added, 'I have a horse whose master was slain so we make a goodly pair. We mourn our losses together.'

Elladan pressed his hand lightly against the man's arm. 'Then I wish you both swift healing,' he said kindly, and bowed slightly as he turned, for he sought Elrohir.

Elladan frowned, wondering where his brother would be. He was no longer in the Houses of Healing, he thought, for the Dunádan who had brought Gandalf's message about Aragorn's council had been relieved to find Elladan and had been searching for the brothers for some hours. It was most likely that Elrohir had made his way to the Mews. Although it was many many years since their last visit, they were no strangers to the White City; they had always stabled their horses in there. The quickest way to descend the city was through the maze of narrow alleyways that criss-crossed the main streets and squares.

He turned towards one of them leading off the square, between the tall tenements with their iron-wrought balconies that crowded out the thin strip of sky. A line of forgotten laundry had been strung across the alley from one balcony to another. Rent and torn, dusted with ash, the bedsheets billowed in the light breeze like the sails of a wrecked ship. He thought briefly of the women and children who had been sent out of the city before the siege, and wondered if it would ever be safe for them to return.

A light voice, clear and urgent, broke in on his gloomy thoughts.

'Elladan! Elladan!'

He looked around and then up to see Legolas poised on the edge of the upper level wall, some thirty feet up, higher than the roofs of the houses in this alley. It seemed to Elladan that his heart gave a shout, and he grinned and waved hopefully. The elf had called a greeting to him and that gave Elladan great hope too for the intimacy he wished for.

'Wait! I will come down,' Legolas called and disappeared from view.

From the brightness of his smile, Elladan hoped the Woodelf had forgiven him and Elrohir. The last time he had seen Legolas had been on the battlefield with the Nazgul converging on the bright-haired archer. Elladan had leapt over the slain in his haste to reach him then, but Legolas had turned on him, full of venom and fire, and his words were burned into Elladan's memory.

'Leave me be!' he had snarled. 'I do not need your charity. I need not your concern either! I would not grieve for either of your deaths so give me none of your pity.' And the green eyes that Elladan had gazed into only hours before, the mouth he had pressed his own lips against, had turned hard and cruel.

But now Elladan's heart pounded with relief to think that Legolas had come to forgive them. For he had much to forgive, thought Elladan, recalling his brother's violence and assault upon Legolas when he was unconscious. And for his own complicity in the deceit.

Elladan leaned against the wall and crossed his arms to keep his hands still, waiting for the object of his admiration to come into view, hoping that this friendliness meant he could pursue his interests as he wished. That one kiss, the longing and the lust he had felt, that sensuous mouth upon his, had been beyond Elladan's experience for he had never kissed one of his own gender in anything but a familial affection… and this was nothing like the soft kisses from a woman. This had been hard and demanding and unyielding and would take as soon as give…to his own surprise, he found himself wanting that again and his fingers pressed against his lips.

'You are very deep in thought,' said a voice by his shoulder and he jumped. Legolas.

'Make the most of it, it happens rarely, or so says my brother.' Elladan smiled and glanced up to the wall where he had seen Legolas only moments ago. He gave a wry smile and clasped Legolas' arm, wanting more and leaning close. The Woodelf did not step back, but he did not close the distance either. He simply stood, looking at him with those long green eyes that Elladan found so attractive, a smile on his generous lips.

'Yet you strike me as being the more thoughtful of the two of you.'

Elladan heard the words but he could not help but notice the dryness of the other elf's lips, and he found it overwhelmingly erotic whereas he liked a woman's lips moist. 'Ah. Well, it is true that Elrohir is a man of action rather than words. He dislikes being still,' he said, trying to look away.

But Legolas smiled then and it was dazzling, like he had been lit up from within and Elladan stared, wondering what had set his soul ablaze. He barely heard the next words for he wanted to lean in close and press his mouth against the warm lips.

'Whereas you are stillness itself; you are the moonlight on still pools where Elrohir... is passion and fire, and snow on the high mountains where eagles soar…'

Elladan could not tear his eyes away and he only heard part of Legolas' words… Legolas thought him like moonlight on still pools? Had he ever thought of himself in such a way? Had anyone? It thrilled him to be seen thus and he reached out his hand to touch the other elf, to confess his desire.

'Legolas…'

'Elladan…' Legolas interrupted and stepped closer, his fair face was suddenly wrung with distress. 'No, please listen,' he begged and Elladan stilled. 'I do not have much time and I have something I need to say to you.' He breathed deeply and looked away, as though preparing himself for something painful.

'I have…I have behaved discourteously at the least, and presumptuously,' Legolas said, his face still turned away and a flush on his cheeks. 'I … pressed my suit upon you when you had no thought of it…I should not have done so.'

Elladan stood aghast and breathless, wanting him to stop, wanting him to change what he was saying.

'Please say you will forgive me, forget what I have done.' Suddenly he raised his eyes to Elladan. 'I was unforgivably rude to you on the SeaSong, and then when we waited to dock I deliberately ignored you and insulted you. When you showed me nothing but kindness and concern on the battlefield, I spurned you intolerably.' The Mirkwood elf stood erect, spoke humbly. 'I dishonoured myself.'

Elladan swallowed but the lump in his heart did not shift. He thought it would choke him, for his hopes were deceived and his dreams suddenly dashed. If Legolas still wanted him, he would not be seeking to put away that moment when he wrapped his strong arms around Elladan and drew him close; he would be recalling it, stroking his arm, his face, his hair.

Elladan reached out and grasped Legolas' shoulder, aware of the strength beneath his lean athletic frame. He opened his mouth, wanting to protest that it was no violation, that he had wanted the Woodelf's touch, that they could take their time.

'No. Please,' he said instead. 'It is my dishonour I need to confess to you…' but Legolas was no longer looking at Elladan but past his shoulder and there was that light again on his face, as if his soul were set ablaze.

Elladan felt an overpowering surge of jealousy, startling him with its intensity, but when he turned to see who it was that Legolas gazed upon with such longing, it made Elladan gasp.

Elrohir, approached swiftly, furiously. His long black hair pulled in a high tail back from his face. It emphasised the angular black brows, the high, strong bones of his face. It made him look dangerous, powerful. And his dark eyes burned with intensity.

Elladan felt sudden vertigo. It was his beloved brother for whom Legolas yearned? For a fleeting moment, knowing it was overly dramatic, he wondered if Feanor had felt such as this on the theft of the Silmarils. He had to turn away to stop himself from seeing anymore.

But Legolas clapped Elladan on the shoulder and stepped towards his twin. 'Elrohir!' he cried. There was such joy in his voice, such pleasure that Elladan trembled a little. 'I am glad I have found you. I am sorry I did not find you last night. I had hoped to…' He paused and said hopefully, 'I want to thank you. Again.'

Last night? Elladan turned suddenly to face them both, shocked out of his misery. To thank him? For what? There was no mistaking the tremulous hope in the Woodelf's voice, or the way Legolas looked at Elrohir now. It echoed too much of his own hopefulness, and he winced at the irony. It hit him then with sudden intensity: Legolas knew it had been Elrohir who had healed him. Something in his heart recognised Elrohir, recognised it was he who had called him back.

But Elrohir barely glanced at Legolas and ignoring the outstretched hand, he pushed past Legolas deliberately and strode towards Elladan. 'I am glad I have found you brother. I have word from Gandalf that he wishes to speak with us.'

'Ah, that is why I sought you too, brother,' replied Elladan but he was not looking at his brother but at Legolas. For at Elrohir's words, Legolas' face seemed to tremble and he put out a hand to steady himself against the stone wall. He seemed off balance. Elladan began to reach towards him even as his brother spoke.

'He has an errand it seems only you or I can fulfil.'

At that, Legolas lifted his head to stare at Elrohir. But it was Elladan who saw the horror and despair in the dark green eyes, and it was Elladan whose hand fell back to his side.

But Elrohir either did not see or did not care because he stood close to his brother and said furiously, 'Glad I am to see you,' he said and then jerking his head towards Legolas, he added bitterly, 'but I am not pleased to see the company you keep.'

Elladan stared at he not see the way Legolas gazed at him, with that hungry adoration?

'Elrohir, I have been looking for you,' Legolas tried uncertainly. It was strange, for all the swagger and light seemed have been knocked out of him in those moments since Elrohir's arrival. 'I looked for you last night after…after I had talked to Eomer. I had to explain to him.'

Elladan stared wonderingly. So whatever had happened between Elrohir and Legolas last night had been complicated by Eomer. Elladan was no fool. He had not missed the way Eomer had stared at Legolas in Edoras and he marked well the reunion on the Pelennor field.

It was only then that Elrohir turned to Legolas, looked at him with contempt. 'And what did you explain? Everyone knows you rutted with him like a beast. Saruman made sure of that.'

Elladan gasped at the venom and fire in those words and stepped towards his brother to protest but he was interrupted by Legolas, his face devastated. 'Elrohir! Please. Wait!' The Woodelf reached out and caught  
Elrohir's black sleeve. 'I was his lover, I am not ashamed of that!' he declared. 'But that is all over and it was so brief. Ai, Elrohir, he is so young, and bereft. His uncle, like a father to him, is dead and he thought his sister dead too. To walk in on us like that...You would not have wanted me to ignore him, surely?'

'I am not the fool you take me for, Mirkwood whore.' Elrohir pulled his arm away violently from Legolas' grasp. 'Now you can boast you have fucked the King of Rohan no less as well as the Marshall,' Elrohir continued relentlessly, 'Did you plunge into him like a stallion? Or did he ride you like the wild thing you are? Did you fuck him? Or he fuck you?'

Elladan cringed against the venom in those word. But Legolas stared wild-eyed and frozen in the hot blast that was Elrohir's fury.

Elrohir's full lips curved into an unkind sneer. 'A king is of course higher than a Prince, although if Aragorn wants a taste of you, you will find it harder to decide between them, I think. Or perhaps you would choose both? It seems to be your proclivity to be fickle.'

Horrified, Elladan caught his brother's arm and pulled him round to face him. 'Stop Elrohir! How can you say these things!' He shook him, but 

Elrohir turned and glared, and Elladan felt all his red crimson rage, the pounding fury that cloaked him like blood, that roiled and burned and seethed.

'You are right,' Elrohir said furiously. 'I should not have spoken of Aragorn that way. He has done nothing.' And then he bared his teeth in a snarling grin that made him unrecognisable. He tilted his head on one side and looked at Elladan carefully, slowly, calculating the hurt, and said, 'You are welcome to this whore, brother. Use him well. That's all he's good for.' And then he pushed Elladan aside and whirled away, his sable cloak billowed around him as his long strides took him quickly between the crowding tenements and into the shadows of another narrow alley.

Elladan could not speak. He dipped his head in both shame and hurt, pierced more keenly than any sword. Legolas still stood staring, open-mouthed and Elladan caught his devastated, desperate gaze for a second but Legolas looked quickly away, as ashamed as he. He mumbled something Elladan barely heard and then followed Elrohir.

Elladan leaned against the stone wall for a moment, and looked up at the sky. It seemed the wind was up because ragged grey clouds tore along the narrow strip of blue. He watched for a moment without really seeing, and slowly he realised what must have happened…Eomer had walked in on Legolas and Elrohir. He closed his eyes briefly and bowed his head. 

Legolas had then gone after Eomer, leaving Elrohir alone.

Elladan looked down towards the narrow alley where they had gone, thinking. He remembered how Elrohir and Legolas had fought on the docks at Linhir, how Elrohir had admitted his desire to hurt Legolas. And then the memory renewed itself again …of last winter and Elrohir returning alone, cloaked against the winter cold, hunched over and hugging a secret shame. With sudden fear, he pushed himself away from the wall and set off running the way both his brother and Legolas had gone.

He heard their voices raised before he saw them. The narrow alley spilled him suddenly into another deserted square. An empty water trough at one end and before it, an overturned cart, the timbers splintered and torn by a huge granite boulder.

Legolas stood in front of Elrohir, with his hand against the other's chest, as if to stop him from running further. Elrohir's body was at battle stance, trembling and furious. He leaned slightly forwards and pushed his face up close to Legolas. Elladan could see the spittle fly from his lips as he spoke but he could not hear what his brother said. Legolas did not cringe or fall back. He stood firmly, hand against Elrohir's chest and earnest.

'…that was a mistake. Why did you not tell me it was you who healed me?' Legolas was crying distraught. 'You let me think it was Elladan! It is not him I want!' Legolas suddenly caught sight of Elladan's approach and faltered. His hand flew to his mouth as if he could stop the words that had already been spoken, too late, and realising Elladan had heard, his shoulders slumped. He reached out his other hand to Elladan but not in the way Elladan wanted him to but as a conciliation, as an apology. He had not meant for Elladan to hear, not wanted to hurt Elladan by his disregard.

But almost as if resentful of Legolas' sudden distraction, Elrohir grabbed Legolas and threw him hard up against the wall, shoving his forearm across Legolas' throat and pinning him there. The Woodelf gasped in surprise and, choking, his hands flew up and clawed ineffectually at Elrohir's arm, his shoulder.

'This is what you want then?' Elrohir demanded harshly. He pushed his whole body against Legolas, chest to chest, hip to hip, thigh to thigh and pressed his mouth onto the Woodelf's violently, bruising and hard. 

Legolas tried to pull away, to turn his head but he was held fast, his eyes squeezed shut and Elrohir's mouth pressed his, violently, rapaciously. Elrohir rolled his hips against Legolas. Choking, frantic, Legolas scrabbled at Elrohir's arm across his throat.

Elladan cried out and leapt forwards. 'Elrohir! Stop!' He began tugging desperately at Elrohir's arm, but all his brother's weight was pressed against the archer's pinned body. Elrohir jerked his hips against his captive and leering, he slid his free hand slowly up and down the lean thigh, and then gripped Legolas' groin hard, sneering at his muffled cry of pain.

'You just told me it was me you wanted,' Elrohir leaned in close and murmured, as if to his lover. He ignored Elladan's attempts to drag him off the choking elf. Instead he shoved Legolas hard again and whispered in his ear, making sure he blew against it. 'I was ready to give you everything,' he gently, almost tenderly licked along the edge of his ear. 'Mirkwood whore…'

'Elrohir, you do not need to do this!' Elladan cried in distress, still pulling at Elrohir. Unable to dislodge the choking arm across Legolas' throat, Elladan flung his arms around his brother's powerful shoulders and began to pull him away but Elrohir's fury leant him strength and he simply leaned even more heavily against Legolas. He pushed his hand viciously beneath the Elf’s shirt and twisted his nipple so Legolas gasped in shock.

‘He pretends he is not used to such rough handling,’ Elrohir murmured, and he caught Legolas’ ear between his teeth. ‘But his Horselord rode him hard I’ll warrant.’

Elladan leaped in again to try to drag his brother off but this time, Elrohir half-turned and snarling, jabbed his elbow into Elladan’s face. Pain burst over Elladan and he fell back clutching his nose. Thick red blood gushed over his fingers. He could barely see and clutching the wall for support, he leaned over, willing it to stop.

Legolas suddenly seemed to have no fight in him. Gasping for air, he slumped wearily between Elrohir and the wall, eyes downcast, fingers still clasped against the crushing arm of his assailant. Elrohir leaned over him and kissed him deeply, pushing his mouth open with his tongue and with his arm still pressed over the Woodelf’s throat, he took his breath completely. 

Elladan, still clutching at the wall as he leaned over gasping, saw the hardening sex of both Elves and for a moment, he felt sick. Elrohir seemed almost unconscious of what he had done, his attention entirely on the captive Elf in his grasp. He ground his hips against Legolas, ran his free hand over the bulging sex and squeezed, caressed.

Elrohir slid his gaze down to Elladan briefly before returning to his captive. 'You see. I told you. He is a whore. You can see how hard he is for this...’ He cupped the bulge and kneaded it, laughing at Legolas’ pained cry, his humiliation. ‘He is eager, brother! Perhaps we should both fuck him? I will hold him for you and then I will take my turn.'

Elrohir laughed at Elladan's shocked, bloody face. With his free hand he grabbed Legolas' long pale hair in his fist and pulled his head back violently so his throat was exposed and the Woodelf gave a strangled cry.

'Elrohir, please stop!' Elladan cried, pushing himself upright. 'You are hurting him!'

'Hurt him? I will break him before I have finished!' He ripped open the shirt and bit down hard on one nipple so Legolas cried out. Elrohir smiled cruelly and raised his head to cast a furious glare at Elladan. 'Did this whore not kiss you on the ship? Do you not want him?' Elrohir laughed again, more scornfully and turned back to gaze lasciviously on the blond elf. 'Let me tell you, brother, about this whore…the day he kissed you, he tried to seduce me also.' 

He bent his head then and licked slowly up the exposed throat. Legolas struggled a little and a sob wrenched its way from his bruised mouth.

But at his brother's news, Elladan paused, suddenly appalled. Legolas tried to drop his head as if to hide from the scorn and shame but Elrohir had the long blond hair tangled in his fingers and he jerked him upright again, dragged his head round so he had no choice but to face Elladan though he would not meet the peredhel's eyes.

'Ah, but you did not know he was playing with both of us.' Elrohir was not apologetic but triumphant, and Elladan suddenly realised he was as jealous of Elladan as he himself had been of Elrohir in that moment  
Legolas had caught sight of Elrohir. But Elrohir seemed oblivious, with one arm still pressed against Legolas’ windpipe, the other pushed down his breeches and mauled his hard sex. Legolas’ breaths were coming in little short bursts, pants and his eyes had closed now in shame or fear or pain, Elladan no longer knew which.

Elladan stared then, not at Legolas, but at his twin. He barely recognised him, the desire to hurt not only Legolas but him. It seemed the moment froze and he was able to feel the crimson fury swirl and seethe and then he glimpsed the absolute pain that caused this; the piercing hurt that tore at his brother's heart. It was enough to make him pause, to gather his own thoughts and to see the helpless, burning confusion and rage.

'Why do you seek to hurt me, brother?' he asked gently. He put his hand on his brother's shoulder and calmly said, 'Release him now. Do not let this come between us.' He met the angry, hurt gaze steadily and let his own blue energy pool and flow around them until he felt Elrohir relax.

With a great gulp of air, Legolas pushed Elrohir away and stood panting, unable to look at either of them. His chest heaved and a breath forced its way past his bruised lips. But to Elladan it sounded like a sob and he was ashamed at witnessing this, at not stopping his furious, hurting brother before.

The blond elf stared at Elrohir, gasping, his beautiful face anguished. His hand clasped his throat, his lip was cut and swollen, and there was blood on his mouth.

'Let me go, Elrondion,' he said miserably and a huge wave of sorrow washed over Elladan. 'You have made it clear what you think. I was wrong. I am sorry … to you both.' Elrohir made a disgusted sound and shoved Legolas away again. Legolas' anguished green eyes locked on him briefly and then tore away. 'I have tried…' He paused and took a gasping, choked breath. He did not look back at them again. 'Let me go and I will not trespass again upon either of you. I swear it.'

'Legolas…I…'Elladan began but Elrohir put his hand out and grabbed his tunic, stopping him.

'You fool only yourself if you think that to him any of us are anything more than a quick fuck,' he said venomously, glaring at Legolas. The Woodelf stumbled back, head bowed.

Elladan turned to him. 'You forget yourself, brother. And you forget your oath to me.' He struggled to keep his own calm peace from swirling away into Elrohir's surging tempest.

'My oath to you is as worthless as this pathetic creature.' Elrohir stepped closer, and glared at his brother, fists clenched. 'I know you have feelings for the whore, Elladan.' He gave Elladan a calculating, spiteful look. 'You need not feel so ashamed of liking one of your own flesh and form. He is very skilled. I was as unable to resist him as you, or that boy-king.' 

Elrohir smiled nastily as he saw Elladan recoil. 'But you are better off bestowing your favours on a hog, or an Orc. At least they will not deceive you with a fair face and a filthy heart.'

'You should know!' Elladan lashed out, unable keep calm any longer in the face of such persistent, bruising hurt. He hurled his brother's own bitter words uttered on the SeaSong back at him. 'It is YOU that behaved like an Orc!'

He was aware, somewhere in the bit of his brain still appalled at what was happening, that Legolas had gone. A scent of meadows and new hay lingered briefly and then was swept away by the rising wind. A storm was brewing. He felt the electric crackle in the air but they could not stop now. 'What has he done that is so terrible?' he asked, hearing his own voice rise in anger. 'He has had a lover before you! And he kissed me, yes. And I am not ashamed of that either!' he said defiantly, the thought of that hard, masculine passion thrilled him even now. He would never regret it, he decided. 'He did not fight you just now! And he could have. You were the one beaten last time. You think he could not have bested you again?'

'Then why didn't he?' Elrohir spat. The question was contemptuous, furious, full of longing and loathing and Elladan could no longer control his own disappointment.

He grabbed two handfuls of Elrohir's tunic and hissed, 'Are you such a jealous fool? He did not fight because he wants you!'

Elrohir curled his lip in contempt but did not fight. 'You would know that for the lie it is had you seen his face. Like a kicked puppy Eomer comes back over and over. It is not finished for him. And you should know that he has gone from you to me to his boy-lover.' He pushed at Elladan but his brother did not release him. 'He is probably on his way there now, to rut like a beast, to ride him hard, like a…' he choked.

'You do not really believe that!' Elladan said tightly. He drew a breath and then said, 'We deceived him! And it is HE who apologises? You assaulted him. And it is he who searches for YOU to make things right?' Elladan said bitterly. He held his brother's dark gaze intently.

With a bitter, disappointed resignation, he said, 'Legolas could not foresee that Eomer would interrupt you, and when he did, he went after this young man who was bereaved, desolate in Legolas' eyes. And he left you - you who in his eyes must appear a strong powerful, immortal elf!' 

Exasperated, he shook Elrohir. 'And he does not fight you though you assault him again? If he didn't want you, why would he bother to find you, to even attempt to reason with you?'

But Elrohir pulled away, stony-faced, his body stiff with anger. 'You know nothing about him.'

'I know he does not want me.' It hurt Elladan to say that, more than he thought it would. 'Perhaps it is Legolas who is the fool. He is wasting his time on you when he could …' He broke off and looked away. 'But you …you have driven away the only chance you will have of healing, of pleasure, of any happiness! That's what you always do… You drive away any who care about you.'

'And if you think that, you know nothing of me either!'

'No? I know that you said you wanted to hurt him!' Elladan retorted.

There was a brief silence and Elrohir ground his boot into the dust. He heaved an irritated sigh and then turned back to Elladan. But Elladan had watched him, and slowly something began to dawn upon him. 'You said once that he reminded you of Mother.'

He thought Elrohir would hit him then. His face went white and it seemed he could not speak. Then he ground out through his clenched teeth, 'Never…never mention her again in the same breath as that… whore. She was innocent! A victim. She was helpless! But he asks for it. He taunts me.. he begs to be taken, forced…' Elrohir seemed barely aware now of his brother, his voice growing louder, more intense, and he gripped the hilt of his sword so tightly his fingers were white.

But Elladan suddenly saw something in Elrohir's eyes, a dreadful violent self-hatred and he wondered for a moment why that was; why did  
Legolas remind him of their mother… and he wanted to hurt him… He remembered that dreadful night when they found her… Elrohir had emerged from that awful hole, clutching their poor, blood-stained mother to his breast. Elladan would never forget the look on his brother's face.

'Elrohir…' he almost trembled at the question he was going to ask. 'Did you want to hurt Mother?' he said in a low, compassionate voice, for he too had been angry that she had left without a backward glance…He could suddenly understand. Gently he asked, 'Do you want to punish her for leaving you?'

He could never have anticipated the reaction he got. A low animal cry from deep in his chest burst forth, a terrible moan of despair and Elrohir leapt at him, shoving him hard. 'How dare you! How dare you suggest… I would never hurt her! I hardly recognised her, I thought she was some half-orc, I never knew… not until…'

'No, I know…' Elladan started to say soothingly. Of course he did not think that…he had not mean to suggest Elrohir would actually hurt her, but even as he spoke, he felt a bubble of fear rise up in him. Elladan had long studied the healing of minds and souls and this made him pause. He frowned for a moment. Elrohir was answering another question entirely, one that Elladan had not even thought of.

Slowly, almost afraid, he asked, 'What happened that night we found her?' 

He pulled Elrohir round to face him but his brother turned away, unable to look at him. 'Elrohir?' he cried, suddenly afraid. 'You would not let me see her. You told me it was too much for me to take.' Elladan recalled that memory almost more vividly than the one of Elrohir stumbling from that dreadful cave, clutching that bundle of rags and filth to his breast like it was his heart ripped from him. It was howling and he came to realize the struggling, shrieking bundle was his mother. But Elrohir had held her cradled to him ferociously, snarling at everyone who came close, looking wild and feral and more like an Orc himself. It had been the worst thing Elladan could ever imagine… surely it could not be worse…

'You would let even me near. You said it would be too much for me. Like I was some child. But it wasn't that. You stopped me because you did not want me near you.… '

He remembered the blood on Elrohir's hands, red blood, blood on her torn dress, on her thighs…but Elrohir had been right. Elladan had not been able to bear it then and had stumbled away, vomiting violently until he fell weakly, clutching his stomach, head on his knees. It was Elrohir who had poured his energy into her, drenching her in his love, his desperate, terrified, panicked love…but she had screamed and torn at his face like she did not know him… and it was only when Elladan was finally able to go to her that she calmed…yet Elrohir had been her favoured one…

He moved closer to Elrohir and studied him. His brother could not look at him, sudden panic on his face. Elladan leaned towards him, and whispered almost fiercely, 'What did you think when you found her? You have always told me that you thought she was some half-orc or mortal woman…' Almost unspeakable dread surged up in his chest then and he closed his eyes and whispered, 'What did you do?' And then not waiting, 

Elladan caught Elrohir's face in his hands, gripping him. 'Tell me!'

'Nothing! I did nothing… I swear. I swear. Elladan, I swear it…' But Elladan could not bear it now. He no longer believed him. This time the red rage was in his mind.

'But you thought it, didn't you?' He grabbed Elrohir's tunic again but this time he could kill him. 'DIDN'T YOU? Is that why Legolas reminds you of her? Because of the violence you feel towards him? You want to hurt him! You would have raped him had I not interrupted you! What else…? ' He could not breathe suddenly, could not speak the dreadful words in his heart. Elrohir pulled back but Elladan held onto him, dragged him closer and shook him.

'No!' he protested, ' No! Elladan! How could you think it? I never…'

But Elladan shoved him away, breathing hard. 'I have sworn to love you whatever you have done, Elrohir. But I swear, if you have harmed a hair on her head, I will kill you.' He stared at his brother for a moment and then turned on his heel and was gone.

X

The wind swirled the dust into drifts and clouds tore across the narrow strip of sky. In the far distance there was a low rumble of thunder.

Elrohir sank onto a fallen rock and put his head into his hands. Above him a raven croaked harshly and a raindrop hit the dusty ground before him. He did not look up. A low moan came from deep within him, and he knew he was worse than any evil Sauron created. And now Elladan, his beloved brother, knew it, knew him for the unnatural fiend he was. The violent passion in him, the desire to hurt as he loved was overwhelming…a memory of long wheatgrass hair, not corn silk, tangled in his fist …bunched muscles straining against chains, sweat shining on skin, in the dark, in the deep dark that no one who loved him could see… Elrohir struggled with his dark lust and lost.

There was nothing but the taste of ash in his mouth and his heart felt like it had been torn from his chest. He was vile, hated. Even his own brother felt disgust for him. And then he realized that for all his suffering the fates had delivered a kindness upon him with a way to flee his torment. Never had the way of Men seemed more attractive. He could escape the hollow loneliness that stretched away and away into immortal infinity. He could choose the gift of Men, the eternal rest of mortality. He wanted to die.

 

tbc


	21. The Remains of the Fellowship

Beta: Anarithilien

 

Chapter 21: The Remains of the Fellowship

 

Gimli looked sideways at the rest of the Fellowship and harrumphed softly into his beard. This was not exactly an overwhelming success. A black and white liveried servant hovered annoyingly at his elbow, trying to fill his goblet with wine. There was no ale. No ale! Thorin's hairy balls, dwarves in their midst yet they had no ale. He turned his glare upon the unfortunate servant who looked terrified and scurried away to fill Aragorn's goblet instead. Again, noted Gimli with immense disapproval.

Sumptuous indeed were the dining rooms of Denethor where the remains of the Fellowship were being fêted, but it did nothing to dispel the gloom that seemed to hang over them. Anything less like a Fellowship he could not imagine. This was supposed to be a celebration, Gimli told himself irritably. It was supposed to cheer Merry up. But Merry had eaten sparsely and pushed his plate aside. And Pippin had fussed and fussed until Merry snapped irritably at him and then, hurt by his cousin's brusqueness, Pippin had crossed his arms and slouched into his chair to sulk. Even now he sat with his chin sunk on his chest, stealing glances at Merry every now and again and waiting to be noticed.

Gimli sniffed and reached for the platter of good rare beef. He forked it plentifully onto his plate and then shoved it towards Gandalf. The wizard ignored Gimli completely and glared at Aragorn instead, who glared back, and with studied defiance, took the pitcher of wine from the embarrassed and fumbling servant, waved a dismissal to them all, and sloshed the red liquid unsteadily into his goblet, almost tipping it over. Gandalf was tutting irritably and fumbling in his robes for his pipe. Gimli was glad at least that they no longer had any witnesses to their misery.

And Legolas had that otherworldly, distant look on his face that meant he was asleep, or dreaming, or just being an Elf. Gimli scowled at him; he was pushing the same piece of bread around and around his plate as if making careful patterns in the rich gravy. It was not as if Gimli had never seen Legolas refuse food before, for he seemed able to forgo food for long periods when necessary. But whenever it was plentiful, he ate heartily. It seemed Legolas was as infected with gloom as the rest of them.

Perhaps it was the magnificence that made them uncomfortable, thought Gimli, digging forcefully at the food in front of him. Around them had been lit hundreds of huge, extravagant candles that dripped wax and cast a lustrous golden glow around the splendid room, softening the harsh edges of the black and white marble floor, the hard marble walls. The finely carved table, its dark wood reflecting the candlelight, was laden with golden tureens of buttered vegetables, gleaming silver platters of roasted meat, rare and bloody, and silver bowls of exotic fruits. They had not been feasted like this since they left Lothlorien. Yet only Gimli and Pippin ate with anything like the appreciation it demanded. For Gimli the gloom of his companions was spoiling his dinner, and that made him grumpy.

He reached for a shank of lamb and slammed it bad-temperedly onto his plate. Well, Aragorn had better get used to it quickly, he thought. The King of Gondor and Whatever-It-Was was not acquitting himself with elegance, Gimli squinted irritably down the long table. Aragorn drank steadily, unusually steadily, spilling wine down his tunic and not even noticing it.

When said King banged his goblet down too hard, wine sloshed over his fingers. No one else seemed to notice though, each so sunk in their own misery as to be completely unaware of each other's.

Even the Elf was oblivious and seemed to have barely registered Aragorn's strange behaviour. The least Legolas could do was share Gimli's concern. Gimli nudged him gently, then after no reaction, nudged him harder. Legolas glanced up surprised.

'You are asleep!' Gimli hissed accusingly.

Legolas' eyes cleared a little of the otherworldly gleam and he shook his head. 'No, I am just thinking.'

The Dwarf snorted disbelievingly. 'No wonder you can't eat,' he said, unable resist. Legolas did not respond so the Dwarf growled and added, 'You have to do something.' He looked expectantly at the Elf.

Legolas stared at him blankly. 'Do something? About what?'

The Dwarf jerked his head meaningfully towards Aragorn who was still drinking steadily, defiantly almost. Legolas just flicked his eyes towards Aragorn, shrugged and then went back to pushing that damned bit of bread around.

'Legolas,' hissed Gimli again. He jerked his head again, more forcefully and this time, pinned the Elf with a hard, meaningful stare.

'What?' Legolas said irritably, louder, and Pippin looked up with interest.

Gimli rolled his eyes and sighed loudly. 'Do something. He'll be flat on his back in five minutes otherwise! What sort of impression do you think he is giving these folk of their new king? He always listens to you,' he added for good measure. Legolas gave a cryptic stare and Gimli shifted a little, uncomfortably. There had been that time in Moria, when Legolas said he didn't like the feel of the place, and then again at Sarn Gebir just before the orcs had attacked... 'He nearly always listens to you,' he amended, and then for good measure, scowled at the Man.

Obediently Legolas glanced over at first Aragorn, then Gandalf. 'What do you expect me to do?' he turned to Gimli.

Gimli noticed that Pippin had opened his mouth to speak but at that moment Merry glared at him so he shut it again. Gimli thought that rather a good thing considering the prevailing mood. But frankly, he had had enough.

'I don't know. Stop him from drinking so much.'

Legolas sighed and rubbed his long hand over his eyes for a moment. 'Perhaps you should leave him, Gimli. He will sleep anyway tonight. Perhaps we should drink with him. Like the Rohirrim.' He laughed softly. 'Drink and be merry, for tomorrow we may die.'

'That's it! I have had enough of this,' Gimli declared irritably. 'You are as miserable and grumpy as a boatload of Longbeards*.' He crossed his arms and scowled at Legolas. This would not do. 'How about you, Pippin?' he said, appealing to the only other member of the company with any semblance of good sense, and that was saying much indeed!

Pippin brightened up immediately. 'How about a song?' he asked and looked at Merry.

'A song?' Merry said with sudden interest kindling in his weary eyes.

Pippin glanced quickly at Legolas, his eyes round and bright, and said, 'Oooh!' Gimli saw Merry wince, and Gimli knew why; that round-eyed, bright look meant Pippin had an idea. And that was not always good...

'What about if everyone has to sing a song?' Pippin asked, clearly determined to make everyone cheer up.

Gimli's heart sank; Pippin would want Legolas to sing that crude and bawdy song he was singing earlier that morning. Aragorn would sing the Lay of Luthien - he always sang that when he was in his cups! The Hobbits would sing that dreadful song about the Preening Pony or whatever it was. And Mahal only knew what Gandalf would sing. But for the first time that evening, Merry looked more like himself. Gimli softened and decided he would endure anything to see the Hobbit smile again.

Pippin almost bounced, and Gimli realised he had not seen Pippin so delighted for some time either, but he would not let that little grief spoil things so he gave a tight smile and nodded.

'Legolas? Would you like to begin?' Pippin said mischievously. No doubt expecting the whole company to be regaled with the Elf's bawdy exploits, real or imagined. 'Merry would like that, won't you, Merry?' Pippin continued cheerfully. 'Legolas, will you start?'

Legolas looked up again and his gaze caught on Pippin's hopeful face. Gimli shook his head- Pippin knew Legolas could never refuse them anything. Ever. Not even that time Pippin had finished all his pipeweed but somehow knew that Aragorn had been saving his, and had one bowl left. Gimli still didn't know how Legolas had got it, nor how Aragorn had never guessed it was his missing pipeweed that Pippin had been smoking with such quiet satisfaction.

But Legolas sighed now. 'I suppose I could finish Nimrodel for you...but it is long and very sad,' he added. And he looked back down at his plate and pushed the same piece of bread around again.

Gimli ground his teeth and saw Pippin's face look first appalled and then suddenly determined. To the Dwarf's and everyone else's astonishment, Pippin reached over and grabbed the piece of bread Legolas had been shuffling around on his plate. 'If you aren't going to eat that, Legolas, give it here,' he said and stuffed it quickly into his mouth. 'I hate to see good food go to waste,' he added, his mouth full.

Gimli roared with laughter at the look on Legolas' face.

"Pippin!' Merry cried.

'Well it's true!' cried the youngest Hobbit, finally at breaking point. He pointed to Legolas. 'He's been moping and miserable all night. And Aragorn is drunk and going to fall over in a stupor. Gandalf is glaring at Aragorn like they've had an argument, and you,' he turned to Merry with misery in his eyes. 'You aren't speaking to me and just tell me off, and it's only Gimli and me who are making any effort, and this is supposed to be a cheerful meal!' Pippin took a breath and stared defiantly at each of them.

Legolas looked away, ashamed, and Merry reached over and took Pippin's hand. He patted it gently and smiled but he seemed too tired really to say anything. Gimli shook his head slowly, sadly. Here they were, six of the nine who were sent against the Nine of Sauron, victorious upon the battlefield, reunited to celebrate, and unable to even have a simple meal together.

It was Aragorn who spoke first. He put his cup down and drew a breath. 'You are right, Pippin. I have drunk myself to stop feeling. And I cannot say for anyone else but I am sorry.'

He paused and looked away. Then for some reason Gimli was unable to account for, Aragorn faced Legolas and said in utter misery, 'I am sorry.'

Gimli was not the only one to be surprised. Pippin looked at Aragorn and then at Legolas, puzzled, but Gimli had an uncomfortable feeling that there was far more going on than he knew.

'Well you can make it up to us by singing a song,' said Pippin, alway ready to take advantage of an opportunity. He threw a reproachful look at Legolas and added, 'But it’s got to be happy, or have a happy ending. Aragorn, you can't do the Lay of Luthien.'

Aragorn's face fell. 'I.. I don't really think I can,' he said, holding out his hands in apology. 'My heart is too heavy this night.' And again, Gimli noticed that it was then that Legolas raised his green eyes to Aragorn and regarded him for a long moment.

'Man cerig?' he asked gently. Aragorn would not meet his eyes but shook his head slowly.

Gimli grew very still; Legolas only ever spoke in his own tongue when he was swearing, being crude, or when he was trying to hide something frightening from the rest of the Fellowship.

The Dwarf watched silently and when he had no answer, Legolas reached slowly out and caught the Man's hand. Aragorn froze. He did not pull away, or speak but Gimli saw him close his eyes briefly as if in pain and turn his head away from the Elf's green gaze.

Legolas held him lightly and Gimli saw the gentleness and love the Elf had for Aragorn. It suddenly hurt him to see that, for Legolas never blamed Aragorn for anything, ever. Whatever he had done... and let's face it, Gimli thought to himself, Aragorn had done much to injure the Elf already.

'Geheno in,' Aragorn said softly, his eyes cast down. Gimli frowned and wondered why he would ask Legolas' forgiveness. But the Elf said nothing and when he went to draw his hand back, Aragorn did not let go so that Legolas looked up startled.

'Geheno in,' Aragorn said again, but more urgently and he clasped Legolas' hand this time.

Gimli felt a sudden rise of panic. Aragorn was not just drunk, he was insistent, and obviously distressed. Gimli felt sure it was because of something he had done to Legolas. Abruptly Gimli pushed himself to his feet. 'What is going on here?' he demanded.

Aragorn and Legolas looked at him and if it had not been so serious, Gimli would have laughed at the identical expressions on their faces, of horror and fear and guilt.

He narrowed his eyes. 'Tell me.'

Legolas glanced at Aragorn.

'Something is going on,' Gimli lowered his voice warningly, and was aware too that the Hobbits were very still and looked at Aragorn expectantly. 'What have you done?' he asked the Man warningly.

Aragorn suddenly pushed his chair away and stood up. 'Legolas is going to scout in the mountains,' he said quickly, throwing a venomous look at Gandalf. He whirled away for a moment to throw open a window and stood looking out, Gimli could see his chest heaving as if he were breathless.

Everyone looked at Legolas.

Gimli heard the Hobbits give a sigh of relief but he was not so easily fooled. Aragorn would not look so upset if it were truly just scouting.

'Oh? The mountains? Well, I will come with you then, for I long to see the mountains. I miss the feel of the good stone beneath my feet.' And he leaned back to watch the reaction.

He was not disappointed. Gandalf raised an eyebrow. Aragorn leaned his forehead against the cool stone lintel and Legolas pulled at the loose thread on his sleeve. Ah... that was always a sign with him, thought Gimli wisely.

'My brother goes with him.' Aragorn returned to the table and threw himself back into his chair. He looked tired. 'You will not be needed, Master Dwarf.'

Gimli did not budge. 'Master Dwarf now is it?' And that was always a sign with Aragorn that he did not want anymore discussion. Well, thought Gimli, Dwarves have the patience of stone. And are creatures of action. This was not the first time Gimli had had to bang the Man's and Elf's heads together. Aragorn gritted his teeth and took another gulp of wine, and Gimli turned calmly to Legolas. 'One more then will make no difference,' he said and met Legolas' narrowed eyes. He smiled grimly. 'When are we going?'

'Not we… Me.' Legolas spoke firmly. But the thread had run along the edge of his sleeve and frayed the edges a little. Gimli remembered once before, thinking they had all unravelled; it was Legolas who was unravelling now.

'Yes,' Gimli smiled tightly. He was like the rock of the mountain now. 'I will go with you. You made a promise to me, if you remember.'**

Legolas looked at him deeply and Gimli heard that whisper of the high wind in the trees, and thought he smelled the deep forests for a fleeting moment. 'Gimli, you cannot come with me. I need speed and stealth. And you have strength and...strength ... You are a rock.'

Gimli paused for a moment and then slid his eyes away from Legolas' earnest face, and studied Aragorn. The Man had let his head sink low and looked thoroughly miserable. He knew something more.

'Tell me,' he said simply.

Aragorn looked angrily at Gandalf and the Wizard puffed thoughtfully at his pipe, sending a long grey stream of smoke into the air. He looked down the long table at the anxious faces before him and met Gimli's earth-brown eyes.

Eventually Gandalf said, 'Tell them what happened yesterday, Legolas.'

And then in a quiet voice and with dim eyes, Legolas told them a story that Gimli could hardly believe. He listened, astonished, as the Elf told them how he had gone into the city and stood in the frosted streets and the Nazgul had come, how he had let himself fall into the sea-longing to escape the Nazgul's searching, and how Elrohir had driven off the Nazgul. Gimli softened towards the son of Elrond at that, pleased that Elrohir had indeed fulfilled his vow to mend things between himself and Legolas. But he noticed too that Merry paled and looked down at the mention of Nazgul.

'What has this to do with scouting though?' Pippin asked innocently. 'Are you checking the Nazgul has gone?'

Gimli realised Pippin was right. A simple scouting expedition would have no real dangers for a warrior as experienced and skillful as Legolas. So what was all the fuss about, the miserable long faces, the sense that this was somehow their last chance to be together? He shot an accusing look at Legolas who would not meet his gaze but pulled at the thread of his sleeve once more.

'The Nazgul saw something… before I could close off my thoughts from it, it saw that I knew about the Ring,' said Legolas quietly. 'But I saw something too... It knew about Frodo …It had… ' he swallowed, 'it had seen something in Ithilien. One of Faramir's men… I think he had seen Frodo. The Nazgul are searching for him in Ithilien.'

The Hobbits had listened aghast and in complete silence, occasionally stealing a look at Gandalf, who sat silently, puffing thoughtfully on his pipe.

Gimli covered his mouth with his hand. He could imagine. Faramir's company had all been slain, or captured. And Faramir had seen Frodo and Sam, he knew about the Ring; Merry had told him as much. There had been but four Nazgul in the battle of the Pelennor Fields. Now he knew why.

'So we need a plan to make it think we have the Ring here,' Gimli surmised quickly. 'And how is that going to be achieved?' He looked round at the company. Aragorn steadily drank the rest of the wine in his cup. Slowly Gimli turned back to Legolas, who sat quietly, still picking at the thread of his sleeve.

'I am going to find the Nazgul and let it see the Ring in my thoughts.' Legolas glanced apologetically at Merry and Pippin. 'I am going to suggest that Merry, the Hobbit who killed the Lord of the Nazgul, has the Ring. That it is here, in Minas Tirith. As is Isildur's Heir. It will draw the Enemy out as Aragorn wishes.'

Identical expressions of outrage appeared on the faces of Pippin and Gimli.

'You are what... !' exclaimed the dwarf.

'No!' Pippin shouted. Indignant and angry, he glared at Legolas. 'Hasn't Merry suffered enough? They will come looking for him and...' Pippin's breath hitched.

Gandalf spoke up then. 'He is safe here, Pippin.'

'Well, Legolas wasn't! Don't pretend the Nazgul could not have killed him! I have seen what they can do- far too close for my liking too. If they can trap Legolas, they can trap Merry. I won't let you do it, Legolas!' exclaimed Pippin angrily. His face was flushed and red and he met Legolas' steady gaze defiantly.

'Nor will I!' declared Gimli, standing beside the Hobbit. 'You go to your death, Legolas. I will not let you do this.'

As if he had not realised, Pippin stared first at Gimli and then he swung round to look at Legolas. 'Then you will sacrifice both you and Merry. You cannot do this, Legolas. Not even because Aragorn wishes it.' All eyes turned to Pippin but he did not waver.

Gimli felt a new respect for Pippin. He looked up at Aragorn and said, 'Pippin is right, Aragorn.' He saw in Aragorn's eyes the despair and fear but he could not stop now. 'Aragorn, this is your friend you send to his death!'

'No.' Legolas reached out and held Gimli's arm. 'Aragorn had nothing to do with this, Gimli. It is my fault alone.' He pulled Gimli round to face him and pinned the Dwarf with his steel gaze. 'I brought danger to us all and I have to dispel it.'

Gimli snorted angrily.'By going to confront the Nazgul? And letting them capture you?'

'No.' Legolas protested, but Gimli saw the fear in his eyes. 'No, I will let them see just enough to convince them that It is here, in the city. It will stop the Enemy from searching Ithilien. He will focus on here instead.' Legolas' spoke anxiously, and Gimli saw how he wanted to convince them this was the right way.

'And how do you intend to escape?' demanded Gimli, feeling a strange laughter bubble up inside him, for this was the most preposterous thing he had ever heard.

In the uncomfortable silence Gimli caught Aragorn throwing a venomous look at Gandalf who sat quietly puffing on his pipe and watching them with shrewd, thoughtful eyes. The Dwarf stroked his beard, realising that of course, it was Gandalf behind this after all.

It was Merry who spoke then, his voice weak as though he were out of breath. 'Is this really the only way?' he asked Legolas soberly.

'It is less than we have asked of Frodo.' The Elf's reply silenced them all. All except Gimli, who would not be silent in the face of this madness.

'Sam is with Frodo.' Gimli clenched his fists. 'With his friend. And I will go with you. Like Sam. With my friend.'

'You are coming back, Legolas?’ said Merry suddenly.

At that moment Aragorn shoved his chair back so hard it fell over. He turned away and glared at nothing, jaw clenched. Merry and Pippin stared at him and Gimli looked back at Legolas.

'Gandalf...?' Pippin asked suddenly, 'You are very quiet. Stop him from doing this. It is too dangerous!'

Only then did the Wizard take his pipe from his lips and he blew a long stream of smoke into the air. 'Legolas is right, Pippin,' he said slowly. 'I will not stop him. It was I who asked him to go.'

'And now you will ask me to go with him,' Gimli planted himself now in front of the wizard, arms crossed and determined not to budge. 'Like Sam went with Frodo.' He did not miss the flicker of pain cross the wizard's wrinkled face, nor did he miss the glance at Legolas and the strange expression in his eyes.

'It is true that Sam did go with Frodo,' the Elf conceded.

'Good.' Gimli turned to him, uncrossing his arms and sitting back down again. 'Then that is settled. We leave at dawn.'

But he felt a strange emptiness settle in his chest at the bleakness in Aragorn's eyes, and in the sorrowful pride in Gandalf's eyes when he looked at the Elf and then Dwarf. And although Gimli wanted to reach out and still Legolas' fingers where he nervously picked at the loose threads of his sleeve, he did not. Yet it was what he wanted. More - it was what he had demanded. He would not leave his friend…And yet, he felt that he had somehow done wrong by him.

xxxx

He should have known better.

Before they turned in, Legolas had been sitting in their shared tent, head bowed, on the edge of the narrow cot that was too short for him. Lamplight glowed and the Elf seemed to reflect it in his own soft glimmer. In his hand a fine silver chain was looped and something glittered. He was staring at it as if it could save him somehow and Gimli had leaned over to see the delicately wrought leaf dangling from the chain. Dwarven-crafted no doubt for no silvan Elf could make something so fine.

Legolas had suddenly looked up and Gimli felt that unsettling sense of vertigo that he sometimes got when he looked into those strange green eyes.

'If I fall,' Legolas had said earnestly, 'Take this to my father...if he yet lives. Make him understand that we are friends. Promise me.'

'You should keep it then,' Gimli had replied sturdily,' for you will not fall while I am with you.'

They had left it at that and Gimli had slept. And dreamed … of dry deserts and hot blue sky … drumming hoofs and red crimson robes flying, white heat shimmering… And awoke, not to the drumming of hooves but the soft drumming on canvas and the dim, diffused light from outside the tent. Rain. It had finally broken over the Pelennor Fields and Gimli knew all would soon turn once more to mud.

He blinked carefully and held his head. After he had forced Legolas to agree to Gimli going with him, the Elf had gone to search for ale for Gimli, and then kept the Dwarf's cup topped and the Hobbits laughing with his merry tales of the Wood. If not everyone had joined in and been happy, Gimli could not blame them, for tomorrow he and Legolas would face the Nazgul and they might not return. But he was determined that if this were to be the last memory the Fellowship had of them both, it would be a merry one. So Gimli had drunk much, too much, and joined Legolas in singing loudly the bawdy songs that usually shocked him.

Gimli winced and told himself everything was fine. The world did not spin in that horrible dizzying way. He was not clinging to the edge of the wooden cot and forcing himself to focus on one thing at a time. In fact, he told himself, he felt remarkably well. He felt something small and sharp-edged in the palm of his had. He looked down and opened his hand with a sudden sense of fear.

A small leaf, wrought of mithril, lay in his open palm.

The Dwarf stared at the leaf for a moment and then suddenly leapt from the bed and grabbed his boots. Dragging on first one then the other, he threw open the canvas tent flap and hurled himself into the daylight.

It was a miserable sight that greeted him. Rain fell in a grey sheet. The ground was slippery and sodden. Mud was churned up by great cartwheels and the proud banners and pennants flopped wearily, bedraggled in the steady rain.

Gimli charged through the mud, wiping the rain from his eyes and struggled to Aragorn's tent. He barged in without waiting.

Aragorn stood, his back to the Dwarf, one hand leaning on a wooden desk, the other covering his eyes.

'Where is he?' Gimli strode over to the man and dragged him round to face him. 'Where is he?' he shouted. And then he stopped. Aragorn wept. Tears on his eyelashes, his eyes red-rimmed showed he had not slept, and he could not look at Gimli.

'He has gone. Early. Before daylight.'

Gimli stared at him, speechless. Then he turned and throwing open the tent once more, he ran. Sliding and slipping on the sodden mud, he pelted over the battle field and into the city. He scrambled his way over piles of rubble and beneath wrecked carts, instinctively knowing his way to the upper levels. His heart hammered, not from exertion but from fear and he hoped with all his dwarven might, that he was not too late, that he had guessed right and Legolas would take Arod, that there was yet some way of catching him.

The mews were almost empty. Two horses put their head over their doors when he entered the stables, munching hay and regarding him with soft, intelligent eyes. One whickered softly and for a moment he thought it was Arod. But it was not. It was a black war horse. It shook its long black mane and whickered again.

Then he realised it was not calling him, and looked behind him. One of the sons of Elrond stood there, staring with the same look of horror and loss on his face, elven-fair. His eyes travelled then to Gimli.

'They are gone then,' he said. 'They are gone and not even farewell.' And Elladan covered his eyes with his strong, swordsman's hand much the way Aragorn had.

TBC

 

* Longbeards- one of many clans of dwarves. Notoriously averse to any kind of journey by water.

** The promise Legolas made to Gimli is that he would go with Gimli on their return and explore Aglarond.

Translations:

Man cerig? - What do you do?

Geheno in. - Forgive me.


	22. Osession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for the next chapters- extreme violence and sexual violence. This one is the precursor.

Disclaimer: Not mine. Not for profit. Just messing with their minds.

Beta: The incomparable Anarithilien. What a difference a beta makes!

 

Mid-point summary  
Elrohir has become obsessed with Legolas - hating him because he reminds him of the terrible scenes of his mother's torment, but falling in love with him. The Nazgul found Legolas in Minas Tirith and tried to 'read' his mind, but Elrohir interrupted and the Nazgul then tempted him with his innermost desire- Legolas. The Nazgul also revealed that Sauron has realised that the Ring might be in Ithilien. Gandalf wants to use Legolas to persuade that Sauron that the Ring is in fact in Minas Tirith and the hobbit with the Ring is in fact Merry. Legolas is the bait for Gandalf's trap to lure Sauron into leaving Mordor and attacking Minas Tirith once more - or meeting Aragorn in battle before the Black Gates. Meanwhile Elrohir heals Legolas of a persistent wound that he himself caused, he kisses Legolas and falls in love. They are interrupted by Eomer, Legolas' former lover, and Legolas, believing that Elrohir will understand, goes after Eomer. Elrohir does not understand. He attacks Legolas violently when Legolas tried to explain and Elladan intervenes, but in doing so, begins to realise what his brother is hiding. The fellowship have a last supper together and Gandalf's plan is revealed. Next morning Gimli finds Legolas already gone, and Elladan finds Elrohir gone also.

 

Ah, here it comes!!

 

Chapter 22: Obsession.

 

Morning sunlight touched the snow on the high peaks of the mountains. Elrohir raised his grey eyes to the distant magnificence and thought he heard the piercing cry of eagles high, high above where the snow never melted, too far for him, perhaps even Legolas to see.

All trace of men receded and they followed first a track, and then a mere wild goat track, up and up, sometimes above the tree line and sometimes dipping below it. But onwards and upwards, ever upwards they went until there were only the high mountains raising snowy peaks above them. Occasionally a bird of prey wheeled slowly in the high blue sky, and Elrohir saw ibex clinging with dizzying tenacity where there was seemingly no hold, impossibly high on bare rock. Once they heard in the distance the yowl of some wild mountain cat, a lynx perhaps, he thought. But they never saw it. Legolas had stopped at the sound and glanced around him in surprise. He has never been in mountains such as these, Elrohir realised, so far south and not infested with goblins and wargs. He felt a sudden pang of regret that he did not want.

Ahead of him the tussocky grass and gorse gave way to scrubby whortleberries and heather, and they had to pick their way between the huge smooth granite boulders as they headed up the narrow path and into the heart of the White Mountains.

They had left the city before the first thin line of dawn, with Gandalf their only witness. It was the wizard who had told Elrohir of the hidden way, a forgotten road from the Houses of the Dead into the mountain and a tunnel that led out onto the mountain itself, used long, long ago by the Kings. Elrohir had insisted they ride as far as they could and make good the distance between themselves and the city. It was hours since they had left their horses loose and grazing on the grassy slopes below.

Elrohir pushed himself on, eyes locked on the path and occasionally glancing upwards. 

The sun drew higher in the morning sky and they had not paused or rested. Elrohir felt his own throat stick and he realised he was thirsty. He stopped suddenly and drew his water skin out, unstoppered it and drank fully. Water dribbled down his neck as he tilted it higher. He saw that Legolas too had stopped and stood uncertainly, a little way off. Elrohir glanced away quickly before the other elf noticed his stare.

But the image was burnt into his mind. Sunlight caught in Legolas' hair, pale wheat-gold lifting in the wind, his face tipped up to the sun, eyes half closed as if with desire, his strong beautiful face…Elrohir almost groaned aloud. How could it be that this elf had such effect on him?

He remembered that night, he had brought Legolas to Aragorn's tent and been overwhelmed...not with the violence of lust he knew so well, but of protectiveness, a desperate tenderness and hope...

It was the first time ever he had first heard his own Song, not even known it was his at first.   
Breathless, spellbound, he had leaned in close and pulled Legolas to him...wanting to hear that thrilling, vibrant Song that made him think of high places in the mountains where eagles cried, keen-eyed and fierce, the wind under their wings, soaring high over the snow-covered peaks…for it was as familiar to him as his own breath, the thump of his own heart...

He had felt then that he could be safe there, with Legolas, and those horrific memories that had spoiled him, ruined his innocence and love, might even dissipate under Legolas's pale green light. Even the long pale hair that had tangled in his fingers that night had not taken him to that dark place.

A pain burrowed up from somewhere deep, deep within. He wondered still if that was love he had felt. Was this what he had been missing all the long years of his life?

He was a fool. It had not been him that Legolas wanted ... and that crushed him.

Elrohir turned away from the Mirkwood elf who had spoiled everything for him forever. He pulled his sable cloak about his shoulders and shifted the sword slung low across his lean hips.

Legolas had fooled him, beguiled him into thinking that perhaps he was not that twisted, depraved thing he feared. Perhaps, he had even thought foolishly, stupidly, perhaps this time he would not imagine his mother, perhaps this time he would not descend into the darkness...

He was three times a fool.

He jammed his water skin back into his belt. 'Come,' he called, wanting a reaction, anything, and hating his own weakness and need, hating that he had offered himself and been rejected. It was humiliating. 'We have little time. You dawdle.'

Legolas did not turn to look at Elrohir, just let his gaze level ahead of him. He said nothing at the harsh rebuke, however unkind, unfounded. It was the vulnerability in that lack of response that touched Elrohir more deeply than he could bear. Does he think of his own impending death? he wondered.

He turned away with bitterness, refusing to feel pity now when doing so could jeopardise everything, and he pulled on his black leather gloves instead, for the wind swept down from the snow-covered mountain peaks. Glancing away to the East where the dark clouds banked, slowly rolling over those lands between the Ered Nimrais and Mordor, he strode off from his silent companion.

He crushed the despair that took him then. Crushed too the fierce protectiveness that had made him leap before the Nazgul, that had made him half carry, half drag Legolas away from Gandalf, shouting that the wizard had violated Legolas as much as the Nazgul had violated his mind. He crushed too, the desperate tenderness he had felt in Aragorn's tent, when he had pressed his face against Legolas' flat belly breathing in his scent, beneath his heart, filled with a tenderness that wanted to lavish long languid strokes on his skin, his flesh.

Furious with himself for being a fool, with Legolas for his betrayal, Elrohir set off again at a punishing pace, hearing no stumble, no sound for he knew the elf could take it, knew he could bear the pace and hardness. He let that drive him even faster, while the clouds rolled closer and darkened the skies above the snow-capped mountains.

His muscles strained at the steepness of the climb in places, the narrow paths that edged their way along cliffs and ridges as they climbed further and further from the city of men, to where it was wild and remote, and he thought the Nazgul would come. No, he knew the Nazgul would come, hearing his summons. It had pledged as much. Gandalf's plan to send Legolas into the path of the Nazgul was full of chances and risk, but Elrohir had his own plan. It would not fail. Sauron knew what Elrohir wanted, understood the lure, the obsession... Yes, the Nazgul would come on the storm.

Elrohir pushed them onwards, punishing himself until he himself could no longer go on, for elven blood may be in his veins, and that of Melian herself, but also there was the blood of Men and that needed rest. At last he stopped and threw his pack down carelessly in a small clearing below the treeline. A dead pine tree stood, its blackened branches showed it had been struck by lightning perhaps and burned. The sun had disappeared behind thick black clouds now that threatened heavy rain. It was dark, like twilight.

He shrugged off his bow and propped it carefully against the pine tree, dead and dry, and if he did so elaborately, Legolas did not comment.

'We will rest here a while,' Elrohir said curtly and then stared at the hurt in Legolas' eyes. 

But Legolas had ripped Elrohir's heart out that night in Aragorn's tent when he had knelt at Legolas' feet, offering him everything, his poor wretched heart and tattered soul, his unworthy body...that moment he had been filled with his own Song, twining about that of Legolas, filled with desperate tenderness, tender passion... and Legolas had shoved him aside to run after the horse-boy, that child who was king of sprawling brats and cattle...

Elrohir looked down at his bow resting against the pine tree.

He turned suddenly towards Legolas as the other elf stooped to retrieve his own bow. 

Elrohir caught the stretch of his tunic against the powerful shoulders, the strong hand around the polished yew, the long, long hair falling over one shoulder and sweeping down, catching the sun, and something in him flashed and burned, caught at his heart.  
He gasped and put out a hand. Could he forgive him? Could he bear this world without Legolas? He could never allow that, never intend that.

Legolas, hearing the gasp, turned to him half heartedly, as though he knew there was no point, instinctively reaching towards him. 'Are you…?' he began hopelessly. 'Elrohir, I...' But then miserably, he let his hand fall back to his side defeated.

Elrohir stared, struggled. He wanted to catch that hand, to pull the long lean body close, to tell him to stop, to go back, to save himself. His family, his people, his home were gone…and yet he was still here, at Aragorn's side, fighting for the love he bore his friends, for Middle Earth, a world where he no longer had a place.

Elrohir rubbed his hand harshly over his face. He hated Legolas, and he loved him...

Legolas, unaware and miserable, looked up. 'The air smells of rain,' he said quietly. 'A storm is coming.' He looked out anxiously over the lands that spread below them, to the fast approaching threat. Bruised clouds rolled inexorably towards them.

'I will scout,' Elrohir said brusquely, needing to get away from Legolas and the havoc he wreaked, the pity he evoked. 'Stay here. Prepare yourself.' And if he thought he would be gratified by the devastated look in Legolas' eyes, he could not have been more wrong - instead he felt only desolation. He strapped on his quiver and reached once more for his bow. He knew Legolas was the better scout but...but what? He did not want to think of him alone out there, waiting for the Nazgul without Elrohir to protect him.

Suddenly, Legolas looked up. 'Elrohir, do you think the tales of Mandos are true?'

Elrohir stared in surprise. He saw a flight of fear in the other's green eyes, and realised he had never seen Legolas fear anything before, not on the Paths of the Dead, not going into battle at Linhir or Pelennor, not even when the two of them had fought in that thrilling, breathtaking duel on the grey stone harbour at Linhir. Now he asks of Mandos, Elrohir thought. He is afraid, he realised with a start. He fears that Mandos is no wise keeper and judge of souls but some Avari demon.

He thought how vulnerable and young Legolas looked then. Almost he forgave him. Almost. But again he remembered that when he had offered his fragile heart to Legolas, it was shoved aside without thought. Legolas chose Eomer.

'Do you think Mandos some soul-eater of the old ways?' he sneered but he saw Legolas recoil at the contempt in his voice, hated the way the elf drew back from him but he could not stop now. 'Do you think he will consume you? Do you think perhaps Manwë is an evil god and Sauron is the light? What fools you Avari are! Unwilling indeed!'

Legolas leapt to his feet, eyes flashing and he stood close to Elrohir, the challenge was still there. He is not subdued, not humbled yet, thought Elrohir.

'I am no fool!' Legolas snapped. His eyes were blue-green and angry. Elrohir stepped closer so he felt the heat from the woodelf, stepped closer again, pressing him to give way but there was no backing down and his body was touching the hard chest, flat belly, lean thigh...their breath mingled and there was a flicker in the blue-green eyes. Legolas’s generous mouth was pressed tight and his nostril flared like some wild stallion, thought Elrohir. His breath was warm on Elrohir’s mouth and he glanced at the mouth, the lips he had kissed and they parted slightly. He wanted to kiss him, hard and passionately.

'We both know what you are,' Elrohir said bitterly and watched in empty triumph as the elf glared at him and then stepped away, turning his back on Elrohir. He did not look back when Elrohir turned on his heel and strode away, up a narrow goat track towards the high ridge where there were a few scorched pine trees blackened against the sky. A low rumble heralded a storm, as Legolas had said. Elrohir thought it fitting and the weather suited him - an unnatural darkness.

 

oo00oooo0000o

There were no sounds, no birds, no small lizards or mammals. There was nothing but the sound of his passing, the scrubby whortleberries whisking softly against him, the scrape of loose pebbles on the faint trail.

The air was colder now the sun had disappeared, and the dark grey light was more like twilight than midday. He stood finally, gazing down from the ridge that on one side slid in a precipitous drop far, far below into a high valley filled with trees. Above him the ridge teetered upwards in the final climb of the mountain, hidden now by heavy clouds that made the world darker.

Elrohir breathed slowly. It had to be soon. He would have to immerse himself in his own darkness if he wanted to summon his foe. He settled down on a boulder where he could look down the gentler slopes to watch Legolas but be unobserved himself, although he thought the elf might sense his scrutiny.

From here he could see a faint smoulder of orange flame. He felt a frisson of irritation for he had not commanded Legolas to build a fire, did not want to give away their camp. He could just make out that Legolas had crouched down and was feeding it twigs and bark until it kindled and was burning steadily. The elf's figure blocked the firelight once or twice as he passed between the fire and Elrohir. Then he watched it settle to a steady glow. It was safely tucked away between the trees, could only be seen from this point, he thought, and was hidden otherwise.

Legolas had not questioned Elrohir's decision to go by the hidden path, or the decision to climb into the bare and untrodden peaks of the mountains, or his decision to scout. He had disobeyed about the fire, thought Elrohir, feeling a surge of anger. Still, the woodelf had not questioned Elrohir once...although Legolas was undeniably the better hunter, the better scout. He had allowed Elrohir to dictate everything.

Elrohir felt a sudden thrill shiver across his skin and was aware of the growing darkness, the silence, a cold raindrop fell on his neck, and he felt his blood thump, pound in his veins. Legolas was there, where he had left him, where he had told him to be. Elrohir could feel him; his skin felt scorched by the other elf's nearness, his lungs filled with his scent, every nerve, every hair was alive to Legolas' presence, of the promise of him. And he had done everything Elrohir told him. Meekly. Submissive. The silvan warrior was in his power, he had followed as he was told, head bowed, shoulders slumped. Defeated. Until that last moment when he had challenged him. Elrohir felt a shiver tremble across his skin, through his bones, thrum in his blood…and it had nothing to do with the cold.

Pain flared through him. Lust, violent lust. Those terrible passions brought him with a horrible start, as always, back to the cave...with the firelight flickering on the dank walls, the muffled panting and cries...

No! He shook his head as if he could loosen the memories and rid himself of them...It had got worse since Legolas had come into his life. He could not forget, for he had stood there and watched. The flash of long pale hair, the orc shoving itself against the limp body...to his horror he felt himself stir and he clenched his fists and cried out, dug his nails into his own hands until the pain flickered on the edge of his consciousness. How could he? How dared he?

He hated himself, hated Legolas for making him remember, making him feel a lust he tried so desperately to deny, to subdue in himself. He had through long years channelled all his violent lust into killing orcs. It was Legolas who provoked him, the long winter-grass hair, the arrogance, the sweep of his laughing, teasing eyes, the brushes against Elrohir, the sheer sensual power of the Mirkwood warrior...

Elrohir found himself hard and full of need. He had always denied himself, hating the smell of himself, quelling desire...except for that one time... He shook his head again. For he had thought then that punishment would exonerate him, cleanse him of his guilty lust...but it did not, and in the end...in the end it was he who had wreaked violence. He had returned to Imladris even more wounded, more dangerous than before. Not even his brother could see how guilty he was.

But Legolas? Legolas made him worse. He deliberately provoked and teased, without a thought, without a second glance. He should have been the one in the orc's cave… He should be chained, restrained, bound...

Elohir licked his lips, suddenly dry. Realising the scene that played itself over and over was the scene in the cave... But this time it did not matter that he watched and did nothing. It did not matter that he felt his own lust stir at the power of the orc shoving against that limp form, because this time it was Legolas' strong, lean body that writhed and struggled…And because it was Legolas, he deserved it. Because it was the long fall and sweep of winter-grass hair burnished gold by the firelight, and the yára-carmë painted on his skin, not blood, and Elrohir let his hand drift down the lean hips, and watched as the elf's body was pounded and pumped…and when the elf cried out, he deserved it, wanted it, and his head fell back with a cry...

Blood pounded in his ears and he pressed the palm of his hand against his groin and heard a long moan from his own lips, unexpected and full of desire. He closed his eyes and let his long hair sweep down his back in a sensuous wave. He wanted to feel Legolas beneath him, to bury his hands in that sea of pale gold, to rip the sueded tunic apart and bare him to Elrohir's own greedy gaze. He wanted to push Legolas' head down over his own steaming sex and hold him there until he choked, to force him down to the ground and hold him there, to struggle with him, wrestle the strength and power into submission, to force the lean thighs apart and to plunge into him even as he imagined Eomer had, to ride him, to tame him, make him plead and beg…

...ahhhhh, he felt a long surge through his belly and loins and leaned his trembling hand on a boulder….became aware of a strange prickling sensation in his fingers and toes.  
It was now, he thought to himself. Slowly he drew Aicanáro. He leaned on it carefully, focused on the mithril runes that swirled and leapt along the blade, invoking its power. It was time. Then he let his long black hair fall over his face for what he was about to do and let himself sink into the mire of his dark lust. Now he would summon them… the Riders on the storm…the Nazgul.

He conjured the images of his lust, the darkness, and sent them out reeling into the darkening night. He focused his powers, his heritage from Luthien, Melian, from his own father, and forced them to obey him, to send a long, soundless call up into the night. He closed his eyes and focused on the images that would summon the Nazgul; the One Ring, hot with power, the strange lurid runes melted on that liquid surface as it burned, burned and molten. He saw the words…saw them and his lips moved as if he had no power to stop them …

'Ash nazg durbatuluk,'  
The world stopped, held its breath.  
'Ash nazg gimbatul.'

Like a long sigh, the wind suddenly stirred and brushed through the treetops in the valley and on the slopes below, whirled around the mountain peaks. The thunder rumbled threateningly. The words were like ash in his mouth. But he took a breath that the wind seemed to snatch from his mouth as he spoke again...

'Ash nag thrakatuluk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.'

The words kindled and became like flames, hot, then burning, searing his tongue, but he did not stop. The wind howled about him, flattening his cloak against his body, storming the treetops so they waved and tossed like grass on the plains. He raised his head to the skies, threw his head back in the wind that pulled his hair into a long streaming black mane, and fixed his gaze to the dark heavens that lowered and roiled overhead, and lightning shot in his eyes.

He stood firm against the wind and conjured the images that seduced him to the darkness. He watched the firelight flicker over naked skin, watched the writhing torment, the rape. He let the darkness wind around his soul, let the shadow slither and coil about his limbs, envelop him in its velvet tempting darkness…He spoke more strongly, more loudly, summoning them…  
'Ash nazg durbatuluk,  
Ash nazg gimbatul,  
Ash nag thrakatuluk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.'

And while the words seemed to melt and burn in his mouth and throat, he felt part of him was screaming, part of him howling. But he would not stop though the wind swirled and buffeted him on the cold mountainside, as if it sought to tear the words from his mouth before he could speak again…

He shouted against the wind a third time…

'Ash nazg durbatuluk,  
Ash nazg gimbatul,  
Ash nag thrakatuluk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.'

And then he knew he was screaming, howling, and all of him was lost to the darkness…

Fire and flames rimmed the darkness and in the hellish glow he saw the promise that burned, the promise of Legolas should he, Elrohir, join them...it was as the Nazgul had said that night on the city walls; the red glow on the elf's skin, bound, struggling, naked, helpless, subdued…ah, no. Not quite. He thought of the flames reflecting in the elf's eyes and knew that Legolas would glare back defiantly, his generous mouth snarling in disgust. Elrohir saw the bloody smear where he had hit the elf across the mouth. 

He watched his own hand as it drifted lower and stroked across the welts he had already left on Legolas' skin so there was more blood. He trailed his fingers through the blood, through the swirling painted yára-carmë of the elf's skin…and gripped him hard, his lean hips, dragging him forwards. And then with a sudden thrust, he watched himself impale his victim helplessly on the spear of flesh so it thrust into the captive elf, tangled his fingers in the wheat-pale hair and dragged his head back, muffled the cries with his own mouth. He felt the woodelf writhe and struggle in his chains, against the rod of iron flesh that shoved into him again and again...he felt the warmth of his skin, the muscles slide beneath. He saw himself now with the elf pinned beneath him, held fast and his ecstasy as he plunged into the hot, tight body, so tight he could hardly penetrate and had to force himself in harder and harder, punishing him, subduing him.

He touched his fingers to his mouth and the words no longer burned but tasted coppery, of blood. Now he did not speak them for they had life and pounded towards him like flames, like shadow and flame on wings. The huge leathery wings pounded the sky, rode the thunder, brought the storm.

Above a high ridge, the sky split in two and forked lightning flashed across the thunderous sky. Huge raindrops splattered on the dry ground, and the smell of dust and dry pine needles scented the crackling air.

Then he heard it. The scream… the thin wail…high above and moving fast…

Nazgul. They came at his summons.

 

TBC

oo0000oo0o

Trasnlations

Ash nazg durbatuluk,  
Ash nazg gimbatul,  
Ash nag thrakatuluk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.'  
One Ring to rule them all etc

yára-carmë- ancient art- the tattoos used by the warriors of Mirkwood to tell who they are and to tell their tales of battle

\-----------------------------------------

Chapter End Notes: Art by Mienepies


	23. Úlairi

Disclaimer: No money etc. Just mucking about.

Beta: The truly fab Anarithilien- so much more than just a beta.

Warning for this chapter- extreme violence

 

Chapter 23: Úlairi.

'Those who used the Nine Rings became mighty in their day, kings, sorcerers, and warriors of old. They obtained glory and great wealth, yet it turned to their undoing. They had, as it seemed, unending life, yet life became unendurable to them. They could walk, if they would, unseen by all eyes in this world beneath the sun, and they could see things in worlds invisible to mortal men; but too often they beheld only the phantoms and delusions of Sauron. And one by one, sooner or later, according to their native strength and to the good or evil of their wills in the beginning, they fell under the thraldom of the ring that they bore and of the domination of the One which was Sauron's. And they became forever invisible save to him that wore the Ruling Ring, and they entered into the realm of shadows. The Nazgûl were they, the Ringwraiths, the Úlairi, the Enemy's most terrible servants; darkness went with them, and they cried with the voices of death.’ The Silmarillion, "Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age"

 

Legolas dropped the kindling he had gathered and glanced around at the silent, empty forest, letting his gaze drift towards the distant peaks of the mountains. Elrohir was nowhere to be seen, but he felt his regard all the same, the intense focus, the simmering contempt. He dropped his gaze to the thin, dry soil and crouched self-consciously beside the shallow fire pit he had already dug to sort the twigs and thin branches into piles for building the fire. He reached back to grope for his tinderbox when the first heavy raindrop fell. He looked up into the darkening sky. It was but midday and dark enough for twilight, he thought.

Legolas sighed. Surely they were far enough away from the city now, he thought. He had wondered why they were coming up here rather than simply riding as far East as possible, but Elrohir had been insistent, ordering him about like some raw novice and he dared not gainsay him. He supposed it was no worse than being dismissed by Elrohir as a scout, as a companion, as a lover, as anything of worth. He hated being relegated merely to the role of bait.

But he knew that was how Elrohir saw him now.

Bait.

And whore.

His hands trembled slightly and went instinctively to his neck, to touch lightly the bruises beneath the collar of his tunic. He drew in a breath, remembering those grey eyes piercing him, the crushing pain in his throat as Elrohir had leaned in close, pushing his long lean body against him, chest to chest, belly to belly, thigh to thigh. 'You told me it was me you wanted.' he had said as he shoved against Legolas hard body, and his hot breath on Legolas' ear had made him squirm...with fear and strange, unwanted desire... 'I was ready to give you everything.' And when Elrohir had licked along the edge of his ear gently, almost tenderly, Legolas had moaned, and writhed, strangled by the crushing arm across his throat, feeling that strange leap of desire throb again as he did so. He still felt Elrohir's smile of triumph against his own mouth, the arousal hard against his own thigh. And then Elrohir had drawn back his lips and spat the words at him. 'Mirkwood whore.'

Legolas blinked and rubbed his eyes on the back of his arm, trying to focus his attention on the fire, wanting to be busy, be useful, be anything but what Elrohir had called him.

He watched unhappily as the small fire flickered into life. He placed one dry leaf at a time, carefully, onto the flames and watched as they caught and flared, and caught fire. Elrohir had not ordered him to build a fire but Aragorn had said he drove the Nazgul off Weathertop with fire. So...so Elrohir might need fire, he thought, when the Nazgul come... And in spite of everything, he wanted Elrohir to be safe. So he fed it carefully until small flames leaped and danced cheerily.

Leaning back against the dry dead pine tree, he listened to the delicate songs of the forest creatures that scuttled and whirred and spun sounds, making their homes, finding food, getting on with the struggle for life in this high, desolate place. He let his mind still. The wind stirred in the dead pine tree and he felt the buzz of life in its branches, beneath the bark, amongst its dry roots. Around him, in the forest, sap was rising in the stems of trees and plants, knowing Spring was on its way, and expecting the warmth of the sun on the earth.

Spring was on its way...and he would not be here to see it.

He felt a nervous flutter in his stomach and wished something would happen now so he did not have to go through with this...Anything. A landslide. A storm...It wasn't fear of death though. Death was something the elves of the forest faced every day they left their stronghold.

He picked up a small twig and idly drew circles in the thin dry soil, remembering how kind Gandalf had been once he had agreed to the plan, how gently he had then said, 'Death is not the end. Death is just another path.' But it was not the same for each of them. Aragorn would die and go beyond the realms of Arda to wherever the souls of Men went. And the hobbits too. And Gimli... Legolas did not know where the children of Mahal went... but it was not Valinor. And he found he could not bear the idea. He stared at the bright flames burning merrily and thought he could understand Arwen Undomiel's choice.

Suddenly he regretted his duplicity with Gimli last night and wished it were the dwarf with him now. He missed his friend, the steady heartbeat at his back, the solid presence, the scent of the earth in the rain, for that was Gimli's fragrance. He smiled at himself. The son of Thranduil thinking a dwarf smelled sweet! But he did, and his song was like the deep earth. Legolas' hand drifted to his chest and searched for the thin chain that was no longer there, for he had left it tangled in the dwarf's strong clever fingers, to remember the promise they had made each other in Lothlorien….to make the journey should the one fall, to his home to tell of him to his family…

He found himself suddenly restless and already on his feet, bow in hand instinctively, wanting action, flight, anything to stop the images and thoughts that flooded his mind. He took two strides out of the clearing and then stopped.

Where could he go? What could he do? When the Nazgul came, he needed to be where Elrohir could find him so...so he could...

Dropping back to the ground he flung his head back and opened his eyes wide to the grey, heavy sky, and wished there were stars and the distant metallic star-chime. This strange midday twilight muffled all sound, all song... As though something were blanketing it. He tilted his head slightly and listened more carefully, listening for the deep notes of the Song, beneath the sounds of the sparse forest and craggy mountain. He thought he heard Elrohir's song briefly, an eagle soaring over smooth snow untouched, but then another image flashed into his mind. Painfully... a brush of fire against his skin, a flick of pain against flesh, a burn of rope around his bones... a hand drifting towards his hip, belly. It was fondling him, gripping him to hardness. A dark jewel flashed on the hand that gripped him...

Elrohir?

He shook his head. Almost without thinking he glanced down at his hands, his wrists. The sensation had been so real that he expected to see burns where ropes had bound him. Fear rippled down his back like cold fingers. It had felt too real.

Cautiously he looked about him. The dim forest was utterly silent.

Elrohir. His thoughts kept circling back to that one point. And whenever he thought of him, Legolas' heart gave a leap in spite of everything...maybe because of everything.

There had been a moment that morning on the trail when Elrohir had stopped suddenly and tilted his water skin up to his lips. A trickle of water had run from his lips down his throat and over his chest, for he had opened his jerkin and shirt in the heat of their climb. Legolas had stared, even after that violent assault, he had still wanted to trace that drop, let his tongue run over the wet mouth, throat and chest... He swallowed.

Because in spite of it all, in spite of that violent assault, in spite of Elrohir's goading him to fight at Linhir, in spite of all his cruelty and insults, Legolas knew Elrohir. He had heard his song. When Elrohir had knelt so chastely between his thighs and pressed a warm and gentle hand against his wounded breast, Legolas had heard the eagles soaring majestic and fierce and the clean steel of the cold and snow on the mountains, high, high beyond the reach of man or elf. But beneath that courage and fierce pride, he had heard the notes of a terrible loneliness, and absolute dread, and it seemed to him that a child stood and silently watched a ship disappear over the edge of the grey sea….

He carefully drew dry leaves into a small pile to feed the fire, his heart as miserable and empty as he had ever known. He thought about the task ahead of them, thought that he had made it easier perhaps for his desperate, fragile Elrohir to play his part in what was about to happen. But it might drive Elrohir even further into that lonely place. He wondered if Elladan knew and thought perhaps he did.

Restless, he rose once more to his feet and gathered up his bow.

There were jarring notes in the Song, he realised, an uncomfortable tension. The forest was utterly silent. The wind had dropped. He stood listening, leaning forward slightly, bow loosely held in one hand, the other on the strap of his quiver.

A memory flashed across his mind; there had been a terrible time once, long ago. The snow had been deep and cold. A hunting party gone astray, deep in the woods. They came across a frozen lake he had never seen before. From behind them drifted the thin wail of hunting Nazgul…the clamour of orcs searching, as they, for game in the starving deep winter…He and his hunters had hidden then, knowing they could not elude the enemy for long, and their breath froze in their throats as the black horses moved beneath the trees they hid in, barely breathing, calming their breath, their fear, for the Nazgul scented fear...scented it and sent the wolves running, the orcs caterwauling after as the elves fled across the lake hoping it would hold, hoping the snow would be their friend. The terror had almost been their downfall. At the memory, he rubbed his fingertips together to rid himself of the pricking in his thumbs.

The sky had grown steadily darker and grey sheets of rain moved purposefully from the East across the plains. Distant spikes of lightning pierced the faraway darkness and he heard the low rumble of thunder far off. A cold heavy raindrop landed on his cheek, his hair, his tunic. Elrohir was nowhere to be found.

Lighting suddenly lit up the whole sky and for a minute he saw above him the bleak high mountains. The sky burst silver-white-black and then again silver-white-black. Thunder rolled and crackled around the mountains and he felt the huge drops of storm rain hit the dust of the mountainside, smelt the sharp clean scent of the rain.

He glanced back to the small campfire. Raindrops sizzled and sputtered but the flames danced and flickered brightly.

He would have no defense against the Nazgul without the fire, he thought. But he did not turn back. Instead he strode along the narrow goat track to the high ridge ahead of him, where the pine trees clustered darkly. That had been Gandalf's plan anyway, he reminded himself. He felt his scalp prickling, his fingertips, the nerve endings of his fingers and thumbs tingling. He felt every hair on his body rise slightly and he hesitated, looked back over his shoulder to the distant smouldering fire.

A great roar suddenly seemed to come up through the mountains. A huge wind hurried up through the passes and high valleys. It lashed through the trees, tossing branches, bending the tree tops. The biting, roaring wind brought the bitterness of the East. Pine cones, small branches struck the earth around him. His hair was caught and thrown back by the wind and he struggled against it, fighting his way to the top of the ridge. Long shadows seemed to cling to the trees, shifting as the branches and leaves tossed and swayed in the strong wind. There was a sudden cracking overhead as a tree limb tore itself from the trunk and crashed through the branches to the ground in front of him. Lightning spiked ahead just beyond the ridge and the shadows lurched forward. The rain came then, heavy thunder drops and he broke into a jog through the trees now, searching for Elrohir and anxious as he drew further and further from the small camp. The small fire should still burn for a while sheltered as it was, he thought, but he could not leave it for too long. His hand clung to the wet wood of his bow. Thunder rumbled and crashed around him.

A sudden sheet of lightning lit up a silvery reptilian hide gleaming wetly in the rain ahead of him. Movement flashed in the lightning and then darkness.

He froze, eyes wide and staring. Lightning and thunder came together this time and they lit up a blunt, ugly head that swung round blindly and snapped its jaws.

Breathless with fear, heart pounding, he stumbled backwards, noticing for the first time the tall shadows that moved and slid, and coalesced into one tall shape. Slowly, as if it had just acquired cognizance, the tall shadow turned. Its gauntleted hand went to its sword hilt and the blade was drawn from its sheath with an unearthly ring. In the lightning that struck all around them now, the sword gleamed like mercury. A morgul blade.

Legolas eyes were huge, wide, and he felt the hairs all down his neck, spine and his arms rise in frozen horror at the realisation.

Nazgul.

It was too soon. Too soon! He was not prepared!

He stumbled and fell, scrambled up and leapt back along the narrow goat track. There was no point in hiding, it had seen him, knew it was him, hunted him… In his panicked state, the image of the Ring leapt unbidden. The long thin shriek of the Nazgul hunting pierced the storm and he fled.

Graceless, stumbling, his feet flew over the soft pine forest floor, leaping over fallen logs, and the wind whipped around him, bits of branches, twigs broken off the trees flew through the air like missiles, rain poured heavily, heavier, and he saw ahead of him the dim glow that was all that was left of the small fire. Elrohir must be here! He must be! Legolas thought desperately. He could not bear to be caught now. He crashed into the clearing, wanting his bow, his long knives and cast about frantically for Elrohir. Nothing. No sign.

Legolas' hands fumbled frantically to feed the fire, to shield it from the wind and rain, for fire at least would be some protection if Elrohir did not come. It flared valiantly and he glanced behind him to where he had dropped his bow and groped for it. At least he could perhaps kill the winged beast, maybe catch the Nazgul's thin black shroud alight.

But Elrohir, who was supposed to protect him from giving everything away, from being taken, was nowhere. Nowhere!

The rain came in drenching sheets, broken only by the tree cover overhead He leaned over the fire as much as he dared, cursing, panicked…with his bow, stringing it instinctively, brushing arrows into the now spluttering flames, hoping they would light, hoping they would catch fire but he had not prepared, not enough and now…now it was too late. The fire spluttered, flickered in the drenching rain and the arrows would not catch, could not catch light. He fumbled with the kindling he had stocked, throwing it on carelessly in his panic.

He cursed Elrohir then. Useless. It was useless now. He could not be taken. He may as well fight.

Crushing the fear that froze his blood, he steeled himself against the horror that froze his scalp at the Nazgul's wailing shriek. Close! Too close! He rose slowly to his feet to face the Nazgul that hunted him.

And then he heard a second thin wail. This time it came from behind. He whirled around in sudden, horrible realisation. An answering shriek came from ahead of him.

There were two Nazgul.

He nocked the arrows that were useless, and turned again, heart pounding loudly in his chest, limbs coiled and ready to leap away into the trees, to run and even though they would hunt him down, he wanted to flee - knew he could not fight and win…but that was not the plan, he thought. He needed to be still. Still, he commanded himself with the one part of himself that had not succumbed to terror. In case Elrohir watched, for his task was not to save Legolas. No, Elrohir would stay hidden, he reminded himself. Elrohir would be watching for a clear shot if he was needed. This is what he should be doing, fool! he reminded himself and crushed his heart’s misery.

Legolas squeezed his fist around his bow so the nails dug into his palms. It is only pain, he told himself as he had countless times before, as his father had told him. And although the thin wailing sent needles of fear down his nerves, he swallowed the fear, and turned to face the approaching Nazgul.

The storm thrashed the trees around him. Thunder crackled suddenly overhead and almost immediately the forest was lit by white lightning. He saw the two black-clad wraiths stride down the slope and emerge from the trees. They stopped at the edge of the clearing.

And then, horribly, fatally, there was blood-freezing shriek behind Legolas, and he whirled to see a third Nazgul, its thin black shroud flapping in the tearing wind.

Three.

His lips parted and eyes widened. Nerveless fingers fumbled uselessly and he dropped his arrows, he stooped to snatch up the fallen shafts and gripped them. But his weapons were useless and he backed against the dead pine tree. The hairs on his neck stood on end and he spun round to see a wraith's empty hood horrifyingly close to him. With a cry, he released an arrow into the darkness. The shadow simply raised its gauntlet and dark sorcery batted the arrow away as if it were a mere dart.

Terrible thin screams filled the night, filled his head, pierced his nerves, and his bow fell from his trembling hands. He said a quick, desperate prayer to Elbereth and dropped to his knees. Fumbling, he thrust a dry branch into the fire, desperate for it to catch, desperate for it to burn. Trying not to shout for Elrohir, for it was not his task to help Legolas fight, but to stand witness and to give the milui-criss*. Was he watching? Was he gloating? Was he clenching his heart in despair?   
The Nazgul slowly stepped forward and one strode into the clearing. 

Legolas swiped the dry branches again and again into the fire, desperate for it to catch. And suddenly it flared.

He scrambled to his feet and sent the burning brand in a wide arc around him. Flames flickered weakly and then suddenly the thin screaming shot through his nerves, came from all sides now and there were two Nazgul in the clearing striding towards him. Legolas spun about, drawing his long white knife in one hand and swung the burning brand towards the nearest wraith with the other.

But the Nazgul simply swung its sword and struck the branch. A shower of sparks went up and the branch broke. Desperately Legolas lunged forwards to snatch up his other knife and rolling, clashed against the cold blade of Mordor. Sparks flew. The huge broadsword crashed down with such force it sent judders up his arms. But the white elven metal held. 

He glimpsed a flap of thin black shroud at his right and whirled round, white metal clashing with the morgul blades. He reached beneath one sword and stabbed into the shroud and felt his knife scrape against metal; one rational part of his mind wondered why a wraith wore armour, but he had no time for he was suddenly assailed by all three charging forward and heavy blades were ringing against his knives. 

He whirled away, kicked sparks up from the fizzling, dying fire in desperation. Sparks flew into the Nazgul, alit on the black shrouds and briefly the Nazgul were distracted…but they knew they had him, and as one, slowly, they drew back, lifted their heavy broadswords in salute. Circled him. Waiting.

He stood in the centre, defiant and proud, with lighting and thunder crashing around him, rain flattening his hair. It was inevitable. It was why he was here. The rain smelled so fresh on the pine needles and he thought that might be his last memory when he whirled once more, clashing against the swords, blades flashing like the lightning that now speared through the sky; a different lightning, like a many pronged whip of molten power. 

Instinctively he threw his arms up and a clash as his own blades met morgul steel in a frenzied attack. He whirled around, suddenly aware of a hiss of steel near his cheek, another sliced the air near his shoulder and he leaped away only to meet another slashing blow that sent shudders up his arm and withdrew, and hammered down upon him again and again. 

And then a searing pain along his arm, like ice, like fire and another trailing his ribs. He gasped and leapt back, another trace of fire along his back. Fire zipped along his thigh as he was pierced once more, and he felt the warmth of blood.

It was the end, he knew. A matter of time. And he wanted to shout to Elrohir that he loved him, he didn’t care what had gone on before, wanted him near. But that would give him away too...Let there be only one death this day, he prayed.

He turned and clashed swords with one and ducked a swinging blow from another. He wondered why they had not simply finished him off yet...And then knew.

‘I am not your plaything!’ he shouted defiant rage thundering through his veins then. And he brought his blades down and crossed them in front of him.  
No. You are not.

A cold blade sliced across his cheek and another burned along his arm. Three blades pierced and cut and tore his arms, thighs, his chest, his belly...but they did not stab downwards, they did not pierce his heart. He felt his shirt flutter and knew it had been rent and tattered. And then one blade pointed at his breast.

'Go on then! Finish it!' he shouted with a nerve he did not believe he had. He made himself stand tall, defiantly shouting. 'I am Legolas Thranduillion. You have searched for me often enough in the woods! Finish this if you dare!' He felt his limbs trembling but let proud anger and defiance fill his veins, his lungs and he blazed with the passion and courage of his house.

The Nazgul paused, as one. And then they leveled their blades at his heart, which pounded in his chest so it felt like he would burst. He held his head high, waiting for the blow. It is only pain, he told himself fervently. It will not last. It will soon be blessed peace...Elrohir, let your aim be steady now!

The three wraiths pointed their blades at him and approached slowly until each sword touched him; left breast, right breast and behind him. They did not ease but pressed forwards slowly, slowly. Where the points touched and then so slowly pierced him, along his nerves he felt a cold ice that burned and was terrible. The pain pressed slowly, endlessly inwards and there was warmth trickling down his skin and the blades pierced skin, then pierced slowly through into muscle and flesh, pressed on between bones. Squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his teeth to stop the screams that wanted to burst from his throat, he drew himself inwards, and briefly thought of his friends, of the Fellowship...and whispered to himself...

For Frodo.

An image flashed into his head then; the One Ring, in a small hand...

The Nazgul raised their heads like hounds scenting the air and thin shrieks filled the air, burned his ears almost. It hurt as much as the swords. 

Merry, he shouted at himself, fool that he was! A small pale face that looked up at him in the Houses of Healing. Merry, who killed Angmar! Even now he felt a wash of amazement and glee at Merry's great deed spread through him, though their shrieking grew louder, angrier and he squeezed his eyes shut; impaled and in slow pain, he lifted his hands to cover his ears but the final blow never came. 

Later, he wished it had. For the shrieking suddenly stopped.

The silence was almost worse. He squeezed open his eyes and gasped in pain and fear, but he would not cower, could not move for the slicing agony through his skin, muscle, flesh. The Nazgul were silent, terrible. Darkness gathered about them then and they towered hugely, for they had all been sorcerers when they lived… Their blades pressed into him, slick and dark and hot with his own blood that oozed from the three dreadful wounds, but they did not go deeper. Sharply impaled, the steel edges cut into him, sliced his flesh and muscle open and he hardly dared breathe.

... the air about him seemed to shimmer and tremble as if in a terrible heat. Words seemed to come out of the darkness, like a whisper of wind at first, but then it grew louder.

Ash nazg durbatuluk.

'That does not frighten me!' he ground out between his clenched teeth, and pain crushed his breath from his lungs. 'I am no High Elf so delicate a little orc-speak can hurt me!'   
Ash nazg durbatuluk.

The dark, deep words filled the small clearing; shadows gathered about the Nazgul as they chanted in deep voices, seemed amplified, echoing, growing in strength as if all the hosts of Mordor stood in the small glade. The words writhed and hissed and the Black Speech pierced him more than any blade.

'That. Will. Not. Be. Enough!' he railed against them and writhed on their swords but that only pressed the blades deeper. Thunder rolled, went on and on and drowned out his brave words, his furious shouting, his defiance; the spell seeped into him, the low hissing, deep chanting, it took over his heartbeat and penetrated his core as their cold blades penetrated his body.

Ash nazg gimbal.

He was one elf, impaled upon the triangle of their steel, shouting defiance and the woods were lit suddenly by lightning. Thunder raged and crashed above. But the words filled his head, his heartbeat, his blood as it pounded in his veins. A spear of lightning plunged into the earth and liquid fire spewed along the ground, ran molten lava in two curved lines around him that met in an ellipse; an Eye and he was at its centre. Red flames flared up and cast hot red light on his face, ran together so he was surrounded on all sides. Walls of fire enclosed him as he was enclosed by the agony of steel in his flesh, and he burned and writhed.

Ash nag thrakatuluk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.

As if it tore from his mind of its own will, the image of the Ring, Ash Nazg, appeared. In a clash of thunder, a wave of power flooded the clearing. 

The blades of the Nazgul sliced downwards like a surgeon’s scalpel so he sank under the agony to his knees, tiny gasps for breath so the blades would pierce no deeper, no longer. His nerves shrilled in the pain and agony, and the air was heavy, charged, scorched by the red flames that leapt around him and did not seem to touch the dark wraiths who surrounded him. So much anguish, so much searing agony; skin heating and scorching, and the red light that burned his eyes filled his vision. No longer could he tell which pain was from fire and which from steel; flesh and muscle sliced open, skin blistering, on fire, melting in the heat. All he could see was the perfect gold of Ash Nazg and everything else was fire…fire …and blood...

No! He shouted in resistance. No! He tried to force his mind away, to the Sea but an Eye opened onto him. More awful than anything, more dreadful than the Balrog, more terrible than the Nazgul...

…I see you...

The Eye fixed on him and he burned and screamed and screamed as his nerves were incised, blood boiled in his veins and joints popped, sinews twist and melt and stretch. It ripped open his thoughts and lightning and flame poured into him…. He saw Ash Nazg. So perfect. So pure…My Precioussss... in the small palm of the hobbit… a hobbit killed Angmar…the king had returned…He saw the Precious Ash Nazg again, in a hobbit's hand…Merry Merry Merry, he chanted because it was all he could think to do. But it ripped Merry from him. Aragorn Aragorn Aragorn…on the Paths of the Dead ...the palantir... Pippin and the palantir… Pippin…and Aragorn and Gandalf. Ah, it knows the grey one...Frodo's hand…Frodo Baggins? A hobbit killed Angmar… Where is it? My Preciousss?… Baggins!

The screaming seemed to come from far away but he knew it was he who was screaming, as much as he had any sense of himself anymore for all was fire and anguish… everything was fire…scorching fire…burning him. His eyes felt they were melting but he tasted salt. It is tears, one part of his mind thought. He knew that was right because he could not last long…Ash Nazg. My Precious...where is it? He knew It, had let It whisper along the edges of his mind, the fluttering temptation, the seduction. The Ring did not look to him for long, he knew he was not enough for it… he had seen too much…The Eye, the Voice, ripped his entrails open and threw his heart to one side, mocked him. A Dwarf...earth-brown eyes, deep song of the earth...Elvellon Elvellon Elvellon... He screamed over the laughter that wrenched his bones from the sockets. It turned itself to more interesting prey…the wizard, yes…more corruptible than a mere woodelf? No…the man…yes..the king… yes…where is it? …in the hobbit's hand...small hand...poor hobbit…fire.. Yes. Fire.

The Eye bore down on him…red raw pain flooded him, every nerve in his body was on fire. Yes, fire, that is where…fire… yes, fire… He was on fire, knew he burned, knew his blood was boiling in his veins, knew his skin was on fire and tearing and fat was melting, flesh burning. He could smell it burning…heard a distant screaming, wailing and there was a clashing and shouting around him and his head was thrown back and he was screaming again.

Distantly, he heard the long hiss of the Nazgul.

'Aicanáro...You have come for him.'

Elvellon Elvellon Elrohir Elrohir…

Then there was fire…a blue fire..blue like the sea…breaking on the far horizon. He remembered Gandalf's words then amid the cruel laughter, the thin, ear-splitting screaming. He no longer knew if it was the Nazgul or himself who screamed...but he remembered the Wizard's voice, mellowed and soft in the distance ...

'The journey doesn't end here,' he had said, sharp blue eyes wide and soft in remembrance. 'Death is not the end. Death is just another path.' Gandalf's smile reached through the agony, the red raw pain. 'The grey veil of this world rolls back and all turns to silver glass and then you see it…white shores, and beyond…the far great country and the swift sunrise.'** and he thought he saw a distant shore like silver glass ahead of him, and white birds flying into the sunrise that was red...

A thin spear of ice sliced into him, piercing his heart. He felt the world tremble and shimmer and then the burning was no longer a fire, hot burning but the ice cold of the Nazgul's blade in his flesh.

TBC

*milui-criss - The Merciful Cut. A silvan expression, common in the Greenwood and used by Thranduil's elves should one of their number be taken captive and with no chance of rescue.

** ROTK Gandalf to Pippin but in this, he also says it to Legolas

\-----------------------------------------


	24. Nine for Mortal Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note: For some reason italics don't show up here. All the Nazgul dialogue should be in italics. Sorry

You have no idea how much influence the wonderful Anarithilen has had- how much time she spent on this with me and any reviews should include her for she co-authored this. And she was ill!

Warnings: Since I know everyone who is reading this updated version, I just KNOW you arent going to be surprised or shocked! 

oo000000oo

 

Chapter 24: Nine for Mortal Men

 

Above the high ridge, the sky split in two. Forked lightning flashed across the unnaturally dark and thunderous sky. Huge raindrops splattered on the dry ground, and the smell of dust and dry pine needles scented the crackling air. Elrohir, stunned by the immensity of his own deed, of the risk he took, opened his eyes wide and stared at the fractured, molten sky. Silver black silver lightning flashed and the thunder cracked overhead, brittle and high. He had invoked the Nazgul, the Black Riders, who were the closest servants of Sauron himself. They were shadows of Mordor and he, Elrohir, had summoned them so that he could ensnare them in his plan.

His plan; no more foolproof than Gandalf’s. His plan - his arrogance shocked even himself.

He had barely finished his dreadful summoning, the words lingering still, like smoke in the air around him, when he felt the hairs on his scalp rise. His fingertips prickled, nerves jangled and on edge at the thin wail, the screams above and behind him.

They were here? No! He thought frantically; it was too quick, too soon. How could they be here already? 

He stretched out his senses, eyes wide, caught the sough of great reptilian wings, tracked their plummet to the earth, the skid of taloned claws on the stony mountainside. 

How? More than unnatural speed. It was treacherous. And then it struck him; they had already been here. Waiting. Watching. He had used the Black Speech, had thrown his summons into the air, but they had not heeded his summons. They already knew. He was a fool. Elrohir cursed himself. Of course. They had been watching the city. Waiting for one who knew of the Ring. Waiting, as Gandalf had predicted. It was Elrohir who was the fool. He thought he could outsmart both Sauron and Gandalf.

But he was not had yet. He felt the nudge of a thin sneer against in his own awareness and knew Khamûl was here, waiting for him on the cold mountain. Ah, and now his trial was upon him. But he wondered why they were not here, with him, confronting him in this strange darkness. He wanted his ordeal over and quickly.

He hesitated and gripped the hilt of his sword, wondering if he should let them find him, wondered if he could do this terrible thing that he had planned. He gazed upwards once more, searching for the malevolence against the edges of his mind.

He turned around, seeking the flicker of the fire on the slopes below, the sudden darkening where Legolas moved, but he could see nothing now and his heart beat faster and then he saw it, a faint flicker of orange in the darkness. That surge of irritation he felt earlier returned now tenfold- he had told Legolas to stay hidden. Small it may be, but the fire was a beacon in this unnatural midday darkness. Anger born of fear surged in his stomach; he would have to be quick now, to draw the Nazgûl away from that bright beacon so they never knew the other Elf was here, never found him in that darkness for he was guileless in this, had no suspicion of Elrohir's intent.

He slid thirst-sharp Aicanáro back into his mithril inlaid sheath and stepped lightly onto the narrow goat track he had followed to this high ridge. It had seemed so simple. Standing, listening to Gandalf's plan, the Wizard's searching gaze easily met by one of Galadriel's close kin. It had come to him slowly...a dawning of an idea. And then a plan. The Nazgûl wanted him, had offered Elrohir rewards, riches, if he would join them. They wanted what he was willing to give them; news of the Ring. And the news Elrohir planned to give the dreadful servants of the Dark Lord was indeed of a hobbit with the Ring, but the hobbit was in Minas Tirith, not Ithilien, not on his way to Mordor. It was the same knowledge Gandalf intended for them to torture out of Legolas. But this way, Legolas would live.

He ran lightly down the goat track that wound between the trees, back down from the high ridge. Small stones skittered under his feet and above him the thunder rolled slowly, threateningly from the East.

He felt a tight squeeze in his chest and glanced quickly towards the fire. The Nazgûl were treacherous. They would see the fire...or sense that Legolas was here. He had not climbed far enough, high enough. Because he knew without any doubt that there were three of them below him- he felt them, like razors against his skin and lightning bolts thrust into the earth below him. The air was heavy with the promise of rain.

Elrohir pounded along the thin trail, suddenly fearful. In another treacherous part of his mind, almost not his own, he remembered how he had pressed against Legolas’ hard body, had crushed his arm against his throat until he could not breathe...had enjoyed the pain he inflicted. It had made him feel powerful. As he had not been that night when Eomer burst in and Legolas left him. As he had not been on that terrible night he found his mother. As he had not been as the small huddled figure hurried along the grey stones towards a grey ship and he could not stop her.

He realised his feet had slowed, almost as if his will was ebbing. He shook himself. In that moment, he heard the second thin wailing cry of the Nazgul, and realised it came from below. Near the small camp. Near Legolas. No! He stopped dead and let his denial surge into the midday darkness, let his crimson power sweep before him and deny the Nazgul.

'You will not have him! You will treat with me!' he shouted furiously. Thunder cracked like a whip and the lightning flashed above hm on the mountain peak.

He felt a brush against his mind, a cold, thin sneer and the rain burst upon him then.

Rávëyon. Come then. I will treat with you...but I have a task for my Lord first.

An image flickered in his mind then, a light figure, a shape that ran lightly ahead of him, feet flying over the earth, heart pounding – Legolas! He could hear his heart racing, hear the panting, frightened breath, caught the scent, the sharp smell of fear, a raw animal smell like the earth itself. He felt the Nazgul lift its head, and scent the air. Then he heard as if from his own mouth, the Nazgul's hunting cry. He felt its surge of excitement, remembered a time long ago hunting beneath the shadowed eaves of Agannâlo, and this one had run before it like a deer, and tricked them again. 

He caught himself breathing hard as the Nazgul had, and saw as the Nazgul, smelt what it smelt and knew its dreadful thoughts...It would be sweet revenge for them, sweet indeed to take this one's shining life, payment in part for all the mischief it had caused over the long years of Exile. The shape flickered and trembled before him, turning terrified eyes...and then it turned and stood...a burning arc of fire flared up in front of the Nazgul, sparks flew and scattered ...Elrohir felt the Wraith's amusement at the desperate attempt to fight...saw the glint of firelight on metal, heard the rasp of steel and saw Legolas as he was seen by the Nazgul... light pouring from him, shining. Nimir indeed, his young strength, his power, immortality...Elrohir felt the Wraith's hunger like it was his own, and the Brethren stepped out from the shadowed trees, and surrounded him on three sides...

Elrohir found himself leaping over the granite boulders, from one to another, flying over the soft carpet of pine needles, against the driving rain. He felt the wind beating against him, catching his cloak. He pulled Aicanáro from its sheath again and it gleamed darkly, hungrily. It knew its old enemy was close, remembered the cold iron taste of shadow and dark.

Rain came in drenching sheets now. Sudden. It pounded the cold, hard ground, splattered on the broad leaves of the sparse forest, drenched Elrohir so he could hardly see. He knew now the Nazgul hunted and that Legolas was alone and unprotected. He was a fool. His plan had gone awry. His feet flew along the narrow track, leaping over fallen logs, roots that snaked out to trip him. He skimmed the thickly carpeted floor...

No! He threw out his defiance, his insistence. He is mine!

He ran, fleet footed and swift as an arrow. Ahead of him on the distant trail, he thought he saw an arc of orange light; it was as he had seen only moments before in the Nazgul's mind, and he heard the Nazgul shriek once more. A long roll of thunder rumbled and then crashed around him, and bolts of lightning thrust into the ground before and behind him. He barely glanced up, barely leapt away from the bolts that sizzled the earth, but surged ahead, Aicanáro gleamed black, wetly in the rain, mithril runes glowed and melted in the lightning.

What do you fear most? What do you desire most? Surely only Idril was desired more.

A low grinding of sinew and bone and iron resounded that was the Nazgul's horrid laugh, and an image then of Legolas, conjured by the Nazgul from his own darkness, naked, sweating, writhing in pain and agony and desire...

‘I am not Maeglin! And you will not touch him!' Elrohir shouted into the rain. But his protest sounded weak even to him. '

The mountainside seemed on fire, a strange red glow but the glow intensified near the place he had left Legolas and he felt his heart pound and he ran faster, his breath coming now in heavy gasps. He leaped over a fallen log. But the images came stronger, and he felt his hands stroke down the flanks of the bound Elf, catch up and twist in long wheat-pale hair... slide down lean hips and cup the bulge of sex...

He can be yours... The voice seemed to slide as easily as his hands down the sweat-slick flanks. The brethren that are Eight can be Nine once more.

Ice seemed to freeze in his veins at that thought and he slowed instinctively. A brief thought flickered in his mind that perhaps Sauron had wanted that all along. It would be cold revenge indeed if a son of Elrond and grandson of Galadriel were to become a wraith, drawn to darkness...Sauron was not a dormant force, waiting...and suddenly Elrohir saw with piercing clarity how he, Aragorn, Frodo, Legolas had been played by the Three, had been beguiled into submission to the plans of the White Council; how bitter...and how inevitable it was that the Dark Lord would regain the One.

He cursed himself for being thrice a fool. Once because he should have trusted Gandalf, told him of his plan. But it was his own damed guilt and pride that stopped him, his fear that the Wizard would see what the Nazgûl had seen, his terrible darkness and lust. Twice because Elrohir's plan did not need Legolas to be here on the mountain and had he trusted Gandalf, Legolas would be safe even now, in the city. Three times a fool for believing he could summon the Nazgul and they would obey. He should have known they were treacherous.

It was his own arrogance that had brought him here, his plan, thinking that he, Rávëyon, with his rich blood of Galadriel and Melian, that he would be able to resist the Nazgul, to tell then what he wanted them to know...and then to be released unscathed, with his prize, Legolas' gratitude, and perhaps even his love. Three times a fool indeed, he rebuked himself. All this for the sake of the Ring.

He paused and looked slowly about him, he felt he was in a dream and that the narrow goat path ahead of him now merged with the shadows and twisted in unexpected ways...

He saw the One clearly in his own mind as if he had seen it himself, hot with power, luminous beauty and purity…such temptation...how could such a little thing...such a very little thing be...in a small hand, a hobbit...

He caught himself suddenly aware, and felt their presence in his thoughts. Yes. A sudden sensation, strange to him, quietly probing beneath his consciousness... He let his mind drift a little, wanting to appear slow, lethargic, letting them sniff for a sense of the Ring... to see a glimmer in his thoughts. For this was why he was the one to do this. His blood, his rich blood, gave him strength and power. Had not Luthien lulled Morgoth himself into a sleep and stolen that which was most Precious to him? That blood roared suddenly in his veins but he stilled it, calmed it. He did not need cuivëar to escape the Nazgul; he was Rávëyon.

He let his mind drift a little and to wonder if even Sauron was strong enough to stop Aragorn from taking the One for himself if he so desired it...He felt the sudden uncertainty of the Nazgul flicker and he fed it, let his mind edge towards thoughts again of the Ring...he felt the interest sharpen and fed it with another image, Merry lying in the Houses of Healing, as if dead, his skin pale and cold, the Black Breath stealing his own life slowly, drip by precious drip... He felt a rise of anger in the edges of his mind.

Angmar...slain by this one's hand? Angmar...such old, cold strength and power... such steel, such razor cruelty...slain by this?

Silence.

He felt the Nazgul withdraw and he stood...slowly realising that he had stopped running, that he stood now in a clearing he did not recognise, and that he could no longer see the arc of fire from the small camp, he could no longer hear the Nazgul. The rain fell heavily, falling on leaves, pattering on the earth, drenching his face. He turned and turned and turned, seeking the way, reaching out for Legolas...He felt the press of the Nazgul on his mind, beneath his awareness.

Of Legolas? Nothing. He had lost him.

Rest awhile. Sleep. Dream...  
He felt a blurring in his mind...like a blanket muffled his thoughts, felt tired suddenly and let his sword rest on the ground before him...wanted to rest, to dream. Let his sword, which stung his fingers and thrummed, let it rest against the wet and sodden earth, sinking slightly in the pine needles that muffled all sound, listened instead to the pattering rain on the broad leaves, slide from the thin pines...the smell of the woods, damp...and there was something about the woods that he needed to remember...

He thought how dark it had grown, and wondered why there were no stars. He could not remember where Elladan was, or why he was here alone in these strange woods. His fingertips prickled. The black hilt of his sword thrummed under his hand but it was quiet. Only the rain for the storm seemed to have died away and there was no sound. He thought he must be alone in the world.

A scream pierced his quiet world. Not the Nazgul's thin wail but a screaming of agony and pain, an Elf's scream.

It pierced him like needles in his fingertips. He remembered. Legolas. He must protect Legolas. From them. It was why he had come. He whirled round, frantic, desperate, trying to find him. He felt the thin smile against his own mouth like the wraith had pressed up close, the Nazgul's thoughts caught and tangled on his own.

Ah... I had forgotten blood... I had forgotten how it squeezed in the veins... forgotten the pound of blood in the heart...the stretch of muscle and sinew...the sensation of strength...the surge and heat of desire...it is such a price...

It seemed like the forest parted before him and the trees swept their branches away from him, fearing to touch his cloak, his black shroud, his very presence filled them with silence though it was a Woodelf he tormented...who screamed and screamed as though his veins were filled with fire, and who tore the clothes from his skin as if they burned like acid.

Elrohir shook his head free of the Nazgul's presence.

Come then. Join us. We are here, with your nûph-zirân,

For Elrohir could see before him now, that he stood beyond the small camp. The blanket that had fallen upon his mind had shaken free and he could see the world again with sharpness and clarity. An unnatural fiery glow lit the clearing just ahead. It came not from any earthly fire. Flames seemed to flicker, licking at the trees. They seemed to draw back in fear.

Three Wraiths stood taller than any man, shrouds of darkness cloaked them and the shadows clung to them. Silent and still, they stood inside the circle, and their blades met in the centre although that was obscured from him. It seemed to Elrohir that darkness and power roiled and coalesced about those blades. Like serpents, the darkness writhed and poured itself onto the earth, uncoiled and slid within the circle drawn by sorcery, joining and linking and growing so it seemed that darkness writhed in the clearing. 

Darkness parted briefly and he saw then at centre, impaled on the three blades - Legolas, on his knees, hair streaming behind him. Not shouting, screaming. His clothes rent and torn from his body now streaked with blood.

Elrohir felt his instincts, every nerve in his body, every cell screaming at him to run, run as fast he could, back up the narrow path, away from this, now. But he held fast to his courage and focused his sharp gaze upon his foe. Aicanáro sang in his hands.

One black shrouded Nazgul, Elrohir knew it was Khamûl, stepped closer and twisted its sword in malicious cruelty so Legolas writhed in anguish. In its other mailed fist was a cold knife, catching on the fire, catching on the lightning that thrust bolts into the ground around them. The black shrouded figure stepped forward, loomed over Legolas, twisting the sword, raised the cold knife and leveled it at the Elf's heart.

But now Elrohir leaped forwards and let Aicanáro clash against the cold knife, forcing it up and away from Legolas. Screams erupted around him, Nazgul and Elf for the wraiths now turned towards Elrohir.

'You will treat with me! He is not yours to take. He is not part of the bargain.'

Rávëyon...You have come for him.

'He is mine.' His stare was iron-grey, for the three blades impaled Legolas and one move from him would be the end. Instead he turned and summoned all the power of his blood, all his fiery energy, all his lust and thirst for ...for...

Yes.. for power...a voice hissed within him. For the power to subdue, not just him...he will not be enough for you. Oh, for now maybe.

The image of his lust was there in front of him, the Elf's head thrown back in agony, lips parted and breath in short gasps, and then a scream as pain wrenched his sinews and muscles, his skin gleaming with sweat, flames flickered over his naked torso, the writhing and swirling yára-carmë painted on his gleaming skin, slick from the rain...

He saw Legolas' lips moving as in prayer and his eyes fluttered, 'Elvellon Elvellon Elrohir Elrohir.' 

There was the cruel laughter; they pressed inwards, and then only the agonised, tortured screaming. 

'No!' shouted Elrohir and Khamul turned slowly towards him. He heard the thin amusement, felt the cold of the Black Breath and steeled himself against it. He was Rávëyon! He would not succumb. He let the crimson power of his own fëa flood his veins, his bones, suffuse his flesh and blood. A blast of power he had never felt before surged through him and the Nazgûl almost staggered.

Khamûl's empty hood had turned chillingly towards him, slowly and then turned back to Legolas kneeling.

'You will not harm him!' he shouted. 'He is mine!' He drew back his hand to blast them again.

Too late! For a moment, everything was still, paused. Legolas naked in the rain and half-light, kneeling at the feet of the Wraiths, their immense and ancient broadsword tips sheathed in his body, his long hair swept back and his strong, beautiful face contorted in agony. There was a brief moment as the Elf bared his heart, as if he were a willing sacrifice. The painted dragon seemed to writhe and thrash on his gleaming skin...

And then Khamûl plunged the cold knife into Legolas's breast. At that moment, the three blades pulled out of his body. Legolas shuddered and trembled, and slowly crumpled to the ground.

Elrohir leapt forwards with a cry and plunged his sword towards the Nazgûl. As one, they turned and met Aicanáro with those bloody- sated blades, and suddenly sparks flew and Aicanáro sang in his hand, quivered and flashed. He swung high and fast and came down again against the Nazgûl blades, and then Khamul swung his own sword beneath Elrohir's raised arm. Elrohir sprang away and felt the slide of steel against his flesh. He whirled around and two-handed, railed against his enemy, his sword clashed against the deadly blade and he struggled, pushed hard and then tore back and swung to meet the other two Nazguls' broadswords again. He found himself almost watching himself as he furiously rained blows upon his enemies, Aicanáro struck and struck again blindly, instinctively and he knew the Nazgul were falling back. Another turned and he swept Aicanáro in a wide arc before him, knocking Khamul's blade to the side.

He breathed hard, glaring at them, 'I will slay you all!' he declared. Aicanáro thrummed lightly in his hand, its bright edge flashed and all but Khamul edged away from that dark blade, knew what magic had forged them and the memory of Angmar's fall haunted them.

If you slay me, he will always be unhoused… this Elf... your yôzâira.

Elrohir barely heard it, barely recognised the words through his blind fury but his hand held back a fraction as he thought...yôzâira - the gift of your longing... a fragment of black robe fluttered to the ground.

You do not see, in spite of your rich blood. Look...

Slowly, Khamul reached out one gauntleted hand towards Elrohir. He pulled back, horror creeping down his spine, his hair stood on end and he had to fight to stop himself from running, but the Nazgul grasped his shoulder and instantly the world changed...

...trees bent and faded. It was like looking into a still pond as the reflection breaks...the heavy sky seemed lower, everything sepia, shapes indistinct, trembling, unreal, and the skeletal face of the Nazgul grinned and leered and looked away towards the huddled body of the Elf...Elrohir felt his heart crack.

Above it shone a light...it trembled and shimmered and moved. It took shape as he looked at it and he saw it was Legolas...a shining pale green light, like sunlight through young beech leaves. His face impossibly young, vulnerable, confused stared at him with no understanding but he saw Elrohir and it seemed a light shone within him then. He reached towards Elrohir and his mouth moved...Rávëyon...A slender ribbon of light seemed to reach between the shimmering figure and the lifeless slumped body.

Elrohir's eyes flashed and he drew his lips back and bared his teeth 'What have you done to him?'

Do not think to fool us, Rávëyon. A Morgul Blade is the gift of the Great One. It severs the spirit from the body so that we may become strong...You carry that power yourself.

'We had a bargain.'

He felt its snarl of amusement, its gesture towards the sword in his own hand.

'You said you would raise me above all others. This is how I should trust you?' he cried. 'I would give you what you want but leave my kin and mine.' Elrohir stared at the emptiness within the hood, and with every pulse of his blood, every beat of his heart, every breath he said, 'He is mine.'

You speak of trust, Rávëyon? Do you think we sit and wait idly until summoned by the blood of Indilzar? You think my Lord a fool! You refused us. And now you wish to join us? No. You need to be given a reason to become one of us, for that is my Lord's will. This is your reason.

It gestured to the slumped body and the black shroud billowed and flowed around him, part of the darkness.

He can yet be restored. Until nightfall he can be returned. There is a little time. Tell me. Where is It? That which is Precious to my Lord. Tell me and I will give you the means to restore him.

Elrohir squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, and he shook his head with a terrible sorrow. He had failed. His great plan to protect Legolas had failed. How dared he believe he could outwit the Darkness and Shadow. What choice did he have now? He had brought this upon Legolas. He had brought them to this place where the Nazgul waited. He had not done as Gandalf planned, instead he had exposed Legolas to a horrible fate, a terrible end that was not death. It was worse.

He took a breath, and shaking his head in despair, said, 'I cannot.'

Khamul turned his head and looked towards the lost and confused spirit that shimmered on the edge of the clearing, that glowed and trembled as the Nazgul approached and the spirit lifted insubstantial hands as if to ward off the evil that came towards him.

A cold revenge indeed upon Azgarâzir* and this, his wretched son. How he will weep.

Khamul reached out and with his iron-clad hands, he brushed across the threads of the shimmering ribbon, like it was a harp, and the shining threads trembled and frayed.

Long have we sought him. Long have we hunted him and his brethren beneath the trees of Agannâlo. I would consume him within the hearing of Azgarâzir, but I will make do with this.

Khamul gave no heed to the silent cries of the ghost as the threads loosened and wisped. He leaned over the senseless body of Legolas and gathered up the fall of pale gold hair. Elrohir watched it slide through iron-clad fingers.

I see why you do desire him, Rávëyon.

Khamul straightened, letting the long strands fall and mingle with those other shining strands.

By nightfall this thread will have stretched...it cannot last...it will fade as the night falls and he will be lost...unhoused. I will hunt him then. I will hunt him down and devour his heart in the darkness.

'No! You cannot...please. I...' Elrohir could not bear it. He held his head in his hands and said in defeat, 'The thing you seek, this precious thing you seek...' He looked at the fallen Woodelf where he lay, pale gold hair spilling around him and the dragon on his skin still and unmoving. For Legolas, he thought and then said, 'It is in Minas Tirith. It was brought there by a halfling, a hobbit. That hobbit now lies under the Black Breath after he slew your Lord, Angmar.' He held his breath, focused all his power on the image of Merry.

There was a hiss of indrawn breath and the black riders seemed to flow into each other and bleed into the darkness. Had this not been what he had intended to do all along? Such a price. When Elrohir looked again, Khamul was close to him, close enough for him to feel its cold, cold shroud brush against his own flesh. So cold it burned and he shuddered and drew back.

Rávëyon. Its voice was rich in pleasure. Bring me the Ring. Bring your Elessar to me and you will be rewarded beyond anything you can imagine.

Khamul moved and the darkness seemed to gather around him so he was no longer shrouded in a black robe but a strange dark that almost glowed, luminous and deep, like a velvet that drew the eye with its richness.

The Nazgul lifted its gauntleted hand and indicated the sword that barely seemed to rest in Elrohir's hand. 

Long it is since we tasted the edge of Aicanáro. Filled with darkness and betrayal he is...  
We are eight. There must be nine. It is right.

Khamul held out his palm towards Elrohir. Resting on the mail-clad hand was a ring, old gold worn thin. A dark jewel glowed in its tarnished setting, such a deep red that it appeared almost black. It looked nothing.

A gift from my Lord.

Everything seemed to stop at that moment.

Without it, you will not make your Woodelf whole.

Almost a sigh, Khamul looked again at Elrohir and he felt its amusement.

Do you not wonder why the Nazgul flew all night over the Pelennor the night of Angmar's fall, though our enemies beset us, watched for us? Do you think we would allow this to fall into enemy hands? This was made by my Lord himself, even as the Morgul Blade. What the blade unmakes, the Ring will make anew.

With a cold shudder Elrohir realised this blood red ring was the one that Angmar had held. This was one of the Nine Rings of power. Steeling himself, he lifted Aicanáro. 'Give me your trinket then but he is my price.'

As Idril was to Maeglin...fitting indeed.

Khamul stood still for a moment as if savouring the moment that the child of the blood of Indilzar took the Ring of Angmar. It seemed he paused as if lost in a memory, and then he stretched out bony fingers once more, towards the shining ribbon of threads and stroked it lightly.

There is such power in this manô, this...spirit. But if you do not use the Ring by nightfall, he will be lost. And then...I will hunt him.

Elrohir gripped his own heart, steeling himself.

I am the new Lord of the Nazgul. We are eight, but soon, we will be nine, Rávëyon.

The Nazgul gathered darkness to itself and turned with a thin sibilant hiss and the gauntleted hands curled about its sword. Elrohir tensed, ready to spring, Aicanáro thrummed lightly, sparks flew. Khamul, Lord of the Nazgul, turned and stalked away into the trees. The unnatural darkness surged softly back as he passed.

Elrohir stared after, frozen to the spot, daring not to breathe, to move. He heard the sough of great leathery wings and looked up to see a darkness cross the already dark cloud and then slowly, life seeped back into the woods.

Nightfall...they would hunt at nightfall, the Nazgul said. Elrohir looked up dazedly at the sky, he had forgotten it was not night. There were still some hours left before then. This unnatural darkness had fooled him. He wondered briefly if the darkness would lift now the Nazgul had gone and he suddenly longed for daylight, however thin. He had until nightfall. And then they would come.

tbc.

Translations

Adunaic. Courtesy of Ardalambion.

The Nazgul were thought to be Black Numenorians. Khamul was known as The Easterling but he would have used remnants of Adunaic and would certainly have known people by their Numenorian names rather than Elvish. Hence his use of Adunaic for some words- for particular concepts and phrases which he would not know in Westron - not using them much!

Nimir – Shining one. Adunaic name for elves.

Indilzar – Elros. Elrond's twin who chose the way of Men.

manô – spirit

nûph zirân – beloved fool

yôzâira – gift of longing

Agannâlo – Nazgul's name for Mirkwood. Literally death-shadow.

Azgarâzir –The Nazgul's name for Thranduil, whom they hate more than any other ruler for his defence and war against them in Dol Guldur. Although it was the White Council that overthrew Sauron as the Necromancer at the end of The Hobbit, Thranduil it was who continuously fought them. Literally "wage war" cf. azaggara

As Idril was to Maeglin – Khamul is referring to the fall of Gondolin. Maeglin fell in love with his cousin Idril. Idril never trusted him, did not return this love. "As the years passed..., his love turned to darkness in his heart.'' (Silm) In the end, Maeglin betrayed Gondolin to the Enemy for the promise and riches, including Idril.

agh burzum-ishi krimpatul – last part of the inscription on the One Ring. '…and in the darkness bind them.'

Author's note: Khamul's rusty Adunaic probably needs some correcting so if someone wants to correct his dreadful grammar, please do feel free - I am more than happy to make him write it out 10x.

yára-carmë- ancient art. Tattoos - see earlier chapters.


	25. Vigil

Disclaimer: not mine. mucking about for no money etc.

Beta: The impeccable, inimitable Anarithilen.  
Please note I use Men to denote the race of Men and men to denote gender, rather than males or ellons etc

Chapter 25 Vigil

Gimli watched. He stood at the walls of the city's seventh level and watched the sun climb into the morning sky above the mountain. He heard the gradual sounds of the city awakening. From silence, men emerged from the guard houses and barracks. A few women left in the city made their way quietly to the Houses of Healing, greeting the men as they passed. Two horses were led out of the Royal Mews, one nickered softly as it clopped past.

A warm presence at his shoulder who had watched with him and had not moved until now, shifted, and his silent waiting companion said softly, 'It should have been me.'

Gimli wondered first if he had heard rightly, so long they had stood their vigil. Then he heard his own voice come as if rusty from such silence. 'But your brother went instead.'

There was no reply for a moment, and then Elladan said again,'It should have been me that went. My brother...is not the one who should do this thing.'

'No one should do this thing,' said Gimli with sudden vehemence. A sudden image of Legolas sitting near the fire, laughing and teasing him to make the Hobbits laugh flashed in his mind. 'No one should be asked to give up their life for such a thin hope.' He did not say that he thought it no coincidence that it was not a son of Elrond who had been asked to give up his life, merely to give the final cut should it be needed. Merciful cut indeed, he snorted to himself.

The Half-Elven merely nodded and resumed his silent vigil.

Gimli turned fully to look at him then, and studied the proud profile; the strong mouth that he had once thought soft, the elegant strength, and he thought him like his brother, Elrohir. He remembered that he had once thought to sculpt the Elf's figure out of granite, but then his mind wandered and he began to think the stone should be finer...he wondered marble perhaps, but it was too cold a stone ... He turned away in sudden anger, feeling somehow he had abandoned Legolas by thinking such trivial thoughts.

At some point Pippin joined them but Gimli barely noticed. The Hobbit thrust some food in front of him but the Dwarf ate and did not taste it. It could have been kram for all he cared. For now he was deep in Aglâbnâla and his earnest prayer to Mahal had never been more fervent. He wished there were a deep foundry here or at least a forge that he might do this properly but he had to keep watch. So instead his hands moved in the minute gestures of the iglishmêk that had beseeched Eru at the Making and so the Khazad had been spared. He made the same prayer now to Mahal to spare his friend.*

Pippin sighed and leaned his arms on the stone wall. Gimli heard a sniff and caught Pippin lifting a hand to dash away a tear from the corner of his eye. He blinked slowly, coming out of his trance and looked down at the Hobbit. He could not smile but he rested a strong, capable hand on the Hobbit's shoulder, squeezing it slightly.

Pippin tried to smile but he couldn't quite manage it either. 'Do you think...do you think Frodo and Sam are alright?' he asked, but Gimli knew Pippin asked this because he could not bear to ask if Legolas was all right. They both knew he was not.

Gimli closed his eyes briefly and nodded. 'Yes. Yes, I am sure of that...Otherwise, all this is in vain.' The Dwarf turned back to his watch and as he turned, Pippin squinted up at him and then gasped.

'That leaf...' he stuttered.

Gimli's fingers brushed the small mithril pendant lightly and then caught around it as if he could somehow protect it. 'Legolas left it with me,' he said gruffly. 'I am looking after it until he returns.'

Pippin looked away then and his mouth twisted. 'It isn't fair!' he burst out suddenly, and Gimli looked away bleakly. 'We have come all this way, survived Moria, Helm's Deep and Orthanc. And now Legolas will die horribly, alone on the cold mountain, without any of us to keep him company.

'I will look after it,' Gimli repeated defiantly and his strong fist clenched. 'And then I will return it.' But he did not say whether he would return it to Legolas or to Thranduil as he promised.

Gimli watched Pippin walk away and then drift back, like a pebble on the lake shore. The Hobbit's shoulders were slumped and his head bowed. Gimli wished he could say something that would cheer the Hobbit but he could find no words of comfort, either for the hobbit or himself. Pippin stayed a little while longer and then he drifted off again.

After a time Elladan started pacing and restlessly staring up at the Mountain, and then he lapsed into absolute stillness, leaning forwards slightly as if listening in the way that Gimli had seen Legolas do so often.

The weak sunlight warmed Gimli where he stood on the highest levels of the city, but the Mountain had become steadily more clouded and now he could not see the peaks, so low were the clouds. Elladan had spent most time, like him, staring out at the mountain as if he could will it to show what unfolded. The Dwarf settled into his Aglâbnâla, and his pleading was all the more fervent for its silence.

He was aware that time passed but he could not say how long. Aragorn had stood with them for a while but Gimli could barely speak to him for fear he would say things he might later regret in his fury with him, for allowing this, for even allowing Gandalf to ask Legolas to do this. When Aragorn saw the leaf pendant dangling from Gimli's fingers, he almost reached out, but instead he walked away, head down. He did not come back.

But it was Gandalf that Gimli found it hardest to be near right now.

It was about midday when he caught the gleam of white robes in the sunlight, and knew the Wizard stood nearby. Almost Gimli turned and spat. But he did not. In his heart he hated the Wizard, but his head, his hard Dwarvish head, told him that this plan, in spite of its weaknesses and flaws, was their best chance and was for the greater good. But the little leaf pendant had grown warm in his hand and there were marks on his palms where he had gripped it so tightly. His fingers moved around it in minute gestures.

It had come to a head just after the Wizard had joined them, just after midday. The air had become so still, so heavy he could swear there would be a storm. But above the city, the sky never broke. Instead the heavy bruised clouds clung to the mountain, building and growing into huge towering thunderheads...and at last low thunder rumbled and crackled in the air around the mountain peaks. Forked lightning split the sky, thrust into the mountain like a molten blade, but the skies above the city were still and heavy, and did not break.

'That is no storm,' Gimli muttered. He let the chain tangle in his fingers.

'No. It is an unnatural dark,' he heard the Wizard murmur.

Gimli almost turned, almost gave him his most scalding glare, but instead he kept his heart and mind focused on his long prayer...his silent chanting, his fingers running up and down the telling of the iglishmêk... His lips did not move but his mind wrapped beseechingly around the secret words.

And then the Wizard jerked upright as if he had been struck. Gimli stared at him, his piercing blue eyes stared up at the mountain.

'This is not how it should be...' Gandalf muttered to himself. 'Words released into the dark...' He shook his head slowly as if in disbelief. 'A summons...That cannot be Legolas.'

Gradually Gimli's fingers stilled and his lips no longer moved. He watched Gandalf now and the Wizard seemed intent and focused inwards although he looked still at the Mountain. It seemed to Gimli that all the Wizard's power was coiled and tense, waiting, straining to be released, but it was caged. And Gimli suddenly understood that this was the same as when the Fellowship was lost in the blizzard upon cold Barazinbar, when the Mountain had thrown them off and Gandalf had said he could not use his magic without proclaiming to all Gandalf is here. To use his magic now would be to alert the Nazgul, and Sauron, that Gandalf's hand was in this. Gimli hated him for it.

'What is it?' he demanded, pulling at Gandalf's sleeve insistently.

Sudden lightning split the sky and a dreadful crash of thunder rolled over and around the Mountain. Gimli jumped and pulled his hand back but when he saw Gandalf's alarm, he knew that had not been Gandalf but some dreadful magic upon the mountain. People came out from the houses and barracks to stand and watch with frightened awe, for they had seen too much to not guess this was the work of Shadow.

Gandalf leaned forwards suddenly, his hands grasping the smooth edge of white stone. He stared up at the Mountain and seemed to still utterly.

'Something terrible has been done,' he murmured. 'This is not how it should be...' His face was pale and terrible.

Gimli heard Elladan whisper a prayer to Elbereth and saw that his fist clenched on the hilt of his sword. 'What have you done, brother?' he murmured, 'Elbereth, what have you done?'

The Dwarf looked from one ashen face to another, fear bursting inside him. 'Never mind what Elrohir has done! What about Legolas?' he demanded of them furiously. 'Is Legolas all right? Is he alive?'

Gandalf looked down then at the Dwarf, as though he were not seeing him and his face was ashen. 'Something dreadful has been done. Something ... dreadful...'

Elladan was moving, he spun away and his long strides broke into a run. Gimli turned to Gandalf who looked again up at the Mountain. 

'Do something!' shouted the Dwarf. 'Do something. You are a Wizard! And don't tell me you cannot. I have seen what you can do! You defeated the Balrog. You came back from the Dead!'

Gandalf looked down at Gimli and there was great compassion and sorrow in his ancient blue eyes. 'Gimli son of Gloin, you cannot know...'

'Don't you dare!' Gimli cried, not wanting to hear it, not caring that the Wizard could not interfere, that it might endanger the Quest. 'You lit a fire on Baranzabir because we would have died otherwise! Do something now!'

And at that moment there was a thunder of hooves and a great black horse hove into view. Astride was Elladan, like some ancient warrior from the War of Wrath, long black hair blown back and his sable cloak, so like his brother's, whirling around him. His horse trumpeted a challenge and half reared. Suddenly it surged forwards. As it thundered towards him, Gimli saw Elladan stretch out his hand and reach towards him. Gimli grasped the outstretched hand, and as he had done so many times with Legolas, he let himself be pulled him up to sit behind the Elven warrior.

'What say you, Master Gimli? Shall we follow our two fools?'

With a roar of approval Gimli hung onto Elladan and he heard Pippin cheering as they thundered past onto the forgotten road, charging along the paved road and breaking out of the city through its hidden gate and into the mountains. Gimli clung to the Elf and sat deep as Legolas had taught him. He became aware of the sounds of another horse following them. He managed to half turn to see a white charger on their tail. Gandalf followed close on their heels on Shadowfax. He felt a fist in his chest then and tears squeezed from his eyes.

 

ooo0000oo

 

The Nazgul had gone. For now.

Elrohir collapsed to his knees beside Legolas and gathered the limp, lifeless body in his arms, remembering another that he had clutched to his breast long ago. His eyes were blurred and he dragged the bloody, naked body to his chest, remembering that he could not bear this world without Legolas. 

He had failed. Oh, how he had failed! How had he dared? 

Shaking his head in disbelief, he moaned and rocked over his beloved...his beloved. Yes. He admitted it now when it was too late. Too late. Always too late.

He bowed his head in misery, uncaring, undone. Then fumbling and panicked, he groped for a pulse, a sign, a whisper of life. But there was nothing, no pound of blood, not even the faintest thread. He could hear a sobbing, moaning like some wounded, distressed animal and even as he half-thought it, he realised it was himself who made that keening sound and the wetness of his face was not, as he first thought, from rain, because there was salt on his lips. 

Choking on his tears, he poured the desperate love from his heart into Legolas, drenched him with his fiery love so it soaked into the empty shell he clasped in his arms. He hugged the limp body to his chest, feeling his own heart would burst. He flooded the Elf's body with his own fire and searched frantically for a spark of life in that cold shell. On the Elf's cold skin the painted dragon seemed curled in on itself around the wound in his chest, the only one that did not bleed. 

A warmth drifted over his wet cheeks and he lifted his head. The ghost shimmered on the edges of his awareness, and he had to make a conscious effort to see its desperate pleading face. It approached him hesitantly, head tilted as Legolas had in life, and it lifted its translucent hand to his cheek. Elrohir felt the warmth again over his skin.

It was only really then that he realised what Khamul had done. That last cold knife plunged into Legolas’ breast like a sacrifice, had been a Morgul blade ensorcelled as the swords had not. He stared, understanding that what the Nazgul had said was true; it had spliced the hroa and fea. The body was empty, and the fea, the ghost, drifted unable to return and only that thin ribbon of green-gold light tethered it to Legolas’ lifeless body. Houseless. Deathless. A terrible fate except worse, Khamul would hunt Legolas’ fea and devour it. He did not know what that meant...Did it mean Legolas could not return to Mandos? Would never be reborn? 

The Ring of Angmar pulsed against his skin, although he could not remember when he had slid it into the pocket of his tunic. He looked down at the still body in his arms and his free hand stroked a stray tendril of hair from the still and lovely face. It hovered over the generous mouth, still...warm.

If you do not use the Ring by nightfall, he will be lost. And then...I will hunt him.

Khamul's words resonated as if he was still there and Elrohir glanced up at the sky. He thought he must have some hours left before nightfall. Perhaps five hours, he guessed. That was even less time than it had taken them to reach this place, he thought. There was not enough time to get back to the city. He rubbed his hand over his eyes and his sight blurred slightly. It no longer rained but the clouds hung low and heavy and he feared that more rain might yet dissolve the insubstantial ghost, though he did not know why.

Gently he caught the ribbon that tethered the ghost to its lifeless body. But the thin threads that had been so carelessly torn by the Nazgul blew loosely, shimmering in the wind. He drew his own power, his crimson fire into his hands and gentled it to a coaxing warmth. Softly, he gathered the torn and loose threads into his cupped palm. The sparks that flew from the shining threads cooled in the darkness that surrounded them, and he caught them lightly in the warmth of his own power. Carefully he gathered each spark, each thread, and wove them together into the ribbon. Looking up at the ghost's fair, troubled face, he paused, holding the threads and ribbon lightly in his hands, for he did not know what else to do.

He closed his eyes in desperation. There was the Ring of Angmar.

What the blade unmakes, the Ring can make anew...

He drew it forth now and rubbed one finger around the perfect gold circle, worn thin and he suddenly shuddered. It was Angmar's still, and he felt its terrible power of cold, cold fear. Its blood-red jewel flashed though there was no light to catch it, and Elrohir was reminded of his own ring, the one that had been his mother's. It was the one thing she had given him in her haste to leave for the Havens; he remembered now, how she had glanced up at him, as if afraid, and pressed the ring into his palm, turning away instantly, almost running from him. He rubbed his thumb over the polished surface of the dark gemstone there. He stared for a moment at it, remembering how they could not heal her, the small huddled figure, the grey waves splashing on the stones of the quay, his wretched grief. And to his shame, he knew he had been relieved that once she had gone, no one knew of his terrible guilt.

But Angmar's Ring glowed in his hand, and he almost thought he heard words spoken as if from a great distance...a dark chanting of many voices in the shadows, an incantation of sorcery...agh burzum-ishi krimpatul. He could heal Legolas, bring the threads together, weave them back into the fabric of his being. He could almost see how it could be done as his fingers hovered over the space above the Ring, brushed its smooth, worn gold.

He felt a warmth on his cheek and glanced up to see the ghost leaning over him. It seemed almost that the pale ghost's hair brushed him. He almost started back but the eyes held him, the long green eyes, wide, beseeching. The ghost was shaking its head, its insubstantial hands held before it as if to plead with him and he glanced again at the Ring and then at the ghost. Its hands sought to grasp him but could not. The fingers that tried to stop his hand brushing the Ring merely passed through his own but he thought he felt a drift of warm air over his arm.

He glanced up at the sky with sudden anxiety. Maybe there was another way...He wondered how quickly he could return to the city. Gandalf waited for him there. If Elrohir was right and they had five hours... Granted, he thought, it was less time than it took them to reach this place, but a descent is quicker. If only the ghost would follow him and swiftly...

Decided, he rose to his feet and glanced about the clearing frantically, eyes alighting on the Lorien bow still leaning against the dead pine, and then on the ghost which lingered sadly. It knelt over the white knives where Legolas had dropped them, brushing its fingers over the wood of the bow as if in farewell.

And if there were not enough time? Elrohir thought quickly, still calculating, still hoping. If he failed and night came upon them before he could get to the city....then he still had the Ring.

Elrohir let the Ring slip into the pocket of his tunic. The ghost tilted its head slightly and looked at him reproachfully. Ignoring it, Elrohir picked up the bow and slung it over his shoulder, he took the white knives and pushed them into the harness, buckling it over his own shoulders. He drew together the thin green-gold threads, as lightly as he dared, winding the shimmering ribbon gently around his hand to lead the ghost down from the mountain. Then he leaned down and pulled the still warm and pliant body into his arms. Clasping Legolas to his chest, he struggled to his feet. Although the Elf was light in his arms, he stumbled slightly, and strands of the thread came loose and flew in the wind. He cried out and almost dropped Legolas to grasp the tendrils that flew. He felt a sudden despair and the Ring pulsed.

He stopped. What if Gandalf could not help him? What if the only way was...?

'Please,' he said earnestly addressing the ghost. 'Please, you must come with me or I must use this...' He glanced down at the pocket of his tunic where the Ring of Angmar nestled against his heart. 'If you stay, they will return. The Nazgul will hunt you. Legolas...please.'

It reached out its transparent hands and shaking its head sadly, brushed its fingers over his mother's ring. It met Elrohir's gaze with such compassion he could not bear it. Glancing away he caught sight of the body he held, of the bruises on Legolas' neck where his own hands had squeezed...He cringed. But the ghost's pale, lovely face looked at him with such trust he felt his heart clench at the thought of what he had lost. He turned and started down the narrow goat track once more, feeling the slight tension of the threads against his hands.

He went slowly, for often he felt the ghost drift and caught it staring up at the trees or the sky as if it were listening to some Song. As the sky cleared a little and the clouds lifted, a beam of sunlight pierced the clouds and shone through the ghost so it looked like grey smoke or mist. Elrohir stifled a cry for it had dulled in the sunlight, grown more transparent. Small threads drifted away, dispersed a little more...

'No,' he cried and tried to catch them as they broke off.

He stopped and bowed his head, waiting for the ghost to come close. And when he felt it, it was a colder breath on his cheek than before. He breathed his own warm healing energy into the ghost, and it glowed a little more warmly. It rubbed its hands together as if it were cold and Elrohir could not bear it. His hand crept to the Ring...he could wear it just once perhaps ... and then give it to Gandalf to rid the world of its blight...But the sad ghost held out its hands once more and at its mute and desperate plea, he lifted the still body higher against his heart and continued on his way.

 

oo00oo

 

It was slow going, and Elrohir felt his arms tremble with exhaustion. With hours of carrying the awkward weight of the inert body, the difficulty of carrying bow and knives as well as his own weapons, after the fight with the Nazgul, he felt his strength ebb, He glanced back to see the ghost falter and stare at him helplessly. Elrohir paused and rested for a moment, knowing it was his own energy that the ghost needed to keep him here, to keep him anchored to the empty body. And the unnatural darkness deepened, it must be gathering towards evening, Elrohir thought with desperation.

He felt the weight of the Ring against him. It was warm and glowed. It seemed to give him energy when he thought about it.

At last the narrow track widened and grew easier. No longer a mere goat track winding into the mountains, it became wider and smoother. Men had ridden this way long ago and the path, though overgrown, was still evident. Elrohir recognised the way marks, covered now in lichen and whortleberries, but there nonetheless for a skilled tracker. Suddenly the darkness grew deeper and he froze.

Hoofbeats.

Two horses.

His eyes darted about, searching for a hiding place. Surely the Nazgul had not returned...surely it was not yet dusk?

From the darkness of the crowding pine trees suddenly emerged a great black horse. It shook his head and gave a great trumpeting whinny that seemed to shake the mountains.

'Barakhir!' Elrohir felt his arms almost give with relief as his horse broke into a trot and another, Legolas' own Rohan mount, followed in his wake. He had found the horses, or it seemed they had found him, for he had left them much further down the slopes than this. And now the fear had gone, he realised the Nazgul had been mounted on their great basilisk steeds and not horses. He almost laughed with relief.

The Rohan horse approached Elrohir and snuffled gently at Legolas' hair. Then it threw up its head, nostrils flaring, and it looked back up the track to where the ghost lingered, faltered. The Rohan steed harrumphed softly and shied, then stepped slowly, hesitantly towards the ghost and stopped.

Almost tearful with relief, Elrohir gently slung the body of the Woodelf across Barakhir's withers. The black horse snorted softly, his eyes rolling a little at the strange burden but Elrohir patted and soothed him. Gently talking to both horses, he managed to swing himself astride Barakhir and then maneuver Legolas' body against himself so the Woodelf's body was leaning back against Elrohir's chest, his head lolled back against his shoulder. With the other hand, Elrohir kept the tenuous hold on the thin threads of ribbon that no longer shimmered but only glowed dully in the growing darkness.

Through sheer willpower, he kept the ghost with him. It leached him of power and energy until he felt weak, barely able to keep astride Barahir. He kept the horse walking slowly, keeping sight of the trembling, nervous ghost, for it kept looking back up the mountain as daylight waned. It had tugged on the ethereal leash as if it wished to flee but Elrohir had gentled it in the way he would a nervous horse.

'Don't go!' he begged and turned towards it. 'I will not let them have you.'

Its eyes were huge and hollow with fear and pain and something shifted in the light. He felt the air change as the day settled into evening; he knew the sun was sinking behind the mountains and the last rays were touching Arda. Nightfall was almost upon them.

He looked down at his hands and cried out. It seemed the thin thread was now transparent and barely visible, running from between his fingers. He grasped at it desperately and it seemed to tear in his fingers. He gasped and forced himself to hold still, the strands running, unravelling and the ghost shimmered and trembled and fragmented. Barakhir halted and looked back inquiringly. Elrohir drew the strands together slowly, with the infinite care of a surgeon and slowly the image coalesced and he wound the strands delicately around his hand, lightly, but as the light dimmed, the threads seemed to fray.

'Do not leave me,' he pleaded. 'I beg you, stay.'

Warmth seeped from the Ring of Angmar into his skin, against his heart and he thought how he could bring the ghost back into Legolas' empty body, now, before it was too late, before the Moon rose and the Nazgul hunted. He saw in his mind how it could be done, how easy it would be to mend those threads, to weave them back into one strong rope of life, to pull the spirit back into the body and bind it there with words of power...to make Legolas obey...

Far away, shivering on the wind that came down from the high ridges, came a cry...high and thin it wailed down into the forests.

He felt a tug on the thin green-gold thread and saw the ghost's terrified, pleading face, felt its fear, its need to flee.

Too late.

Elrohir cast a desperate look back up the mountain. All his choices were gone. He turned to peer along the road ahead; between the tall pines, were the distant white towers and spires of the city, and they seemed impossibly far. He would never make it to the old hidden road before nightfall.

He reined in the great black horse and gently traced his hand over Legolas' still, cold face. He glanced to where the ghost hung back, and it knew his mind for it lifted its transparent hands, beseeching him. It pulled on the thinning leash of light that bound it to the empty body, and tried to draw away even as Elrohir drew forth the old, worn Ring and stared at it briefly.

Sudden hoofbeats clattered in the distance. Elrohir whirled around, ready to draw, to fight, this time to the death and as he did so, he tugged from his finger his mother's ring and held the Ring of Angmar over his fingertip. He threw a final glance at the trembling ghost which frantically tugged and pulled on the leash that held it, seeking to escape, to run, to flee, but Elrohir's will held it to him and he looked down at the Ring. It glowed with a menace and power that billowed, coiled like smoke.

 

oo0000ooo

 

Gimli clung to Elladan for their pace was fast and the track often vanished only to reappear again later beside some clear mountain stream or crossing some high meadow. The white figure of Shadowfax surged ahead of them. Up, up through the trees, along the broken paved road that became more and more a track until they reached the high slopes. Already it was late afternoon but the clouds were thick overhead and mist clung to the trees damply, curled up from the ground like thin smoke...the lichen grew thickly over the waystones and the road was almost hidden by moss and heather and ferns. It was lushly green on these lower slopes of the mountain but high, high above, the scree and bare grey granite cliffs and high ridges towered. Only the ibex and wild mountain goats clung to that inhospitable terrain.

The pine trees were dense here and even less light filtered through the gloom. Pine needles deadened all sound and moss clambered thickly over granite boulders. Suddenly Shadowfax snorted and pranced, and Elladan's black horse shook its head, silver bit jangling.

It was then they saw the horses.

A black horse, with a rider appeared and as quickly disappeared between the trees. A grey horse followed too briefly to see more.

'Did you see?' Elladan asked breathlessly.

'Not enough,' Gimli replied but Elladan urged his great charger onwards.

Gimli strained to see round Elladan, seeking a glimpse of the horses they had seen through the trees. And then suddenly they came into view again. There were two riders on the black horse. One with long raven black hair and resting against him, Legolas, his face pale, eyes closed. He did not move.

'Please Mahal! Let it not be. I will give all the gold of my fathers and all the mithril and jewels of the mountains if this be not so...'

Elrohir's horse had stopped and its rider seemed intent on something behind him. He looked back up the track and then fumbled in his pocket. Gimli saw a glint of something and a shiver went through him.

'Elrohir!' Elladan called and the dark Elf looked up suddenly. His hand flew to the hilt of his sword but Shadowfax surged past suddenly pushing against the black horse, Gimli felt Gandalf's knee jostle his briefly and then his view was blocked. But he heard, felt, Elladan's horse give a tremendous whinny and they surged forwards and cantered to Elrohir's side.

Before he knew or could see anything, Gimli felt Elladan push him slightly and he let himself slide from the horse. Gimli landed hard, the impact shuddering all the way through his feet and legs for Legolas always gave him his arm to slide down slowly. But he had no thought for his own comfort, immediately turning his face up to where Legolas rested against Elrohir's chest. Then Elladan had joined him and was reaching up and taking Legolas from his brother.

Elrohir leaned forwards as if exhausted.

Gimli reached out to Legolas as he lay across Elladan's arms, still and silent, his head falling back. He could not believe how pale Legolas was, how still. The Elf was half naked and bloody, his painted skin cold, covered with small wounds, like he had been pierced many times by knives that meant to hurt, not kill, not even injure mortally. There were three in the sides of his body and one fatal wound in his chest. Gimli frowned. There was no blood from that wound and surely it was an arrow intended to kill his friend; an arrow from Elrohir’s bow? He peered at it. Two bows in that quiver and Legolas’ twin blades. So at least he had saved Legolas’ weapons for when he...when he what? Gimli stared down at the lovely still face.

He laid his hand against Legolas' forehead. It was cold. Cold like the stars he loved. Oblivious of Elladan's intense scrutiny, Gimli peered carefully into the Elf's still face, held a hand beneath his nose to feel if warmth was there. None...and yet...and yet… He held out his own arms to take Legolas from Elladan, unaware of the pressure that was building up in his chest, the disbelief that all that vibrancy, this merry, passionate soul that he had grown to love, was gone.

He lifted Legolas from Elladan and clasped him to his chest, and he felt the bitter tears come then.

He was aware of Elrohir wearily swinging down from his horse, that he stumbled as he dismounted, that Elladan put his hand out and steadied his brother. He knew that Elrohir leaned against his horse as if he might faint, and that somewhere Gandalf was standing, beyond them and staring intently into the gathering darkness. But Gimli held Legolas close and did not really care for anything, anyone else. He hugged the Elf tight to his chest, fighting the rage that wanted to burst from him, biting his tongue against the curses he wanted to hurl at all of them and the sobs that wanted to wrench their way out of his chest.

Elrohir stood shaking at his brother's side. Gently the exhausted Half-Elf reached out to stroke the hair from Legolas' still, cold face. Gimli felt like growling but he forced himself to allow it. He saw Elrohir's distress and thought that he at least seemed as miserable as Gimli felt himself. But that is as it should be, he thought recklessly. For had not this Half-Elf killed Legolas? Had he not delivered the so-called Merciful Cut? Not an arrow though, he thought, looking again at the horrific wounds in his side and in his chest, at the tiny slashes and cuts all over him. No, a blade had killed Legolas. He clenched his fist to stop his hand from trembling, to force himself not to lash out at them all. But when the Half-Elf sobbed slightly and tried to take Legolas back, Gimli pulled away and clasped Legolas jealously to himself.

Elladan pushed Elrohir's hand away. 'Fool, you can barely stand yourself,' he said and Gimli heard a tenderness in his voice that he could not bear, for Legolas was dead.

'No, you don't understand,' Elrohir protested. Gimli glanced up coldly at his distraught face, saw the way he clung to his brother but that his other hand was outstretched strangely as if he held something delicate and fragile. 'I must...I must hold him here.'

Gimli looked away, back down at Legolas’ closed eyes, thinking Elrohir had lost his mind. Perhaps there were two tragedies here then, he thought. And it penetrated his own misery that these two sons of Elrond had had more than their share of hurt. It was the Enemy after all who had done this. He stroked a hand over Legolas' cold cheek and spared a glance for Elrohir. He was broken, Gimli could see. Elladan sought to hold his brother, much as Gimli held his beloved friend, but Elrohir pushed him away, staring back along the road and holding out his hands as if entreating, beseeching something, someone who obviously was not there.

Elrohir seemed to slip into further madness then, looking down at his open hand. 'No...No!' he cried aloud, 'It is breaking, loosening, fading.' He held both his hands open, fingers splayed as if he were trying to catch something slipping through his fingers, like sand. He cast a despairing look back up along the broken road and held out his hands beseeching. 'Please. Stay.'

Gimli shook his head coldly for grief and horror at what Gandalf had asked him to do had destroyed both Legolas and it seemed, Elrohir. He sent a glare at the Wizard and slowly realised that Gandalf too was staring intently along the road where Elrohir gazed.

Suddenly the Wizard spun around, his face fell and fair, and the light of the Maia shone through suddenly and was as quickly veiled. He strode forwards and grasped Elrohir's shoulder. 'What has happened here?' he demanded of Elrohir. 'What have you let happen?'

'Daro!' Elladan growled and he shoved Gandalf aside and stood protectively in front of his exhausted brother. 'Here is Legolas slain, as you commanded, my Lord Mithrandir. My brother only 'let happen' what you demanded of us!' He stood quivering with rage and Gimli thought he looked indeed the grandson of Galadriel.

Gandalf drew himself tall. White fire seemed to crackle round the edges of his robes, of his hair, his piercing blue eyes flashed and suddenly he was terrifying. 'I speak to your brother, Elrondion.' He stepped around Elladan and seized Elrohir by the shoulder. Gimli did not care much but he saw Elrohir wince as the Wizard cried out, 'What have you done?'

Elladan went to step forwards, bristling protective fury, but Elrohir grasped Gandalf's robes and clung to him, his eyes desperate, fastened on the Wizard's blazing blue fury. 'It is as you see,' the Half-Elf said urgently. 'I have brought him back. To you. You must heal him. You must undo what was done. You can see...' He thrust his hand away towards the mountain again and at something, Gimli thought, only Elrohir in his madness, could see. 'They will be here at nightfall. They will hunt and ... and devour him...You must help him!' Tears ran down his cheeks.

Gimli looked away. Let Elladan care for his mad brother. The Dwarf cradled Legolas gently, not caring about the arguments that went on above him. It made no difference. Here was his friend, cold and still. There were the wounds that had tortured him, the wound in his chest that had not bled. Gimli shrugged out of his own cloak and wrapped it tenderly around the still, cold Elf. He thought he felt a cold breath on his cheek then but he tasted salt and knew it was only his tears cold in the wind. But he felt it again, like a touch, on his arm. Bitter cold that seemed to leach the warmth from him briefly.

Gandalf stepped back from the brothers, magic still crackling from him like static, and he glowed in the gathering night. 'I do not know what you were doing up there, Elrondion,' he said angrily, 'but I swear I will find out. For now we must protect Legolas.' He was suddenly businesslike. He turned to the Dwarf. 'Gimli, get up on that horse.' He indicated Arod and Gimli opened his mouth to protest. 'Don't argue, just do it. You are no use to me just standing here - I need you with him. He will follow with you. He trusts you.'

Gimli clung to the Elf's empty body, hugging him tightly and tears streamed down his face. He broke, too wrenched with grief. 'How dare you order me so, Tharkûn!' he thundered. 'You have given me the body of my dearest friend and you command me! You who stood by and did nothing!'

'No time for that now, Gimli,' Gandalf spoke briskly but he knelt beside the wretched Dwarf and put his hand on his shoulder. Gimli opened his mouth to argue and found those piercing, clear blue eyes pinned him, nailed him...completed his thought. The Dwarf stilled. He saw Gandalf then as he truly was, the forge-hot blaze of white. Here was the spirit of fire that had battled and defeated the Balrog, had blazed against Saruman, and conjured fireworks for the delight of Hobbit children. Olórin.

'Trust me.'

Gimli blinked and it was Gandalf again. 'If you love him at all, Gimli, trust me now and think of all you and he have done. Think of how you love him, how he trusts you.' He saw that tears had fallen on Legolas' cold cheek and wondered where they had come from. He reached out a strong, capable hand to brush them away and felt a drift of cold air on his own cheek again as it had before.

He found Gandalf very close to him and gently the Wizard said, 'He is not quite gone yet, Gimli. We still have a chance to bring him back but the Nazgul are close now. We must be gentle. Bring him with us, Gimli. Bring him back.' Slowly the Wizard mounted Shadowfax and then looked down to Elrohir and Gimli. 'I will take his body now. Elrohir pass it to me. Gimli, you will ride Arod but stay close to me.'

'Not gone yet...There is a chance?' Gimli's heart gave a great leap and pounded in his chest. He thought he felt warmer air brush against him then and turned, expecting to smell meadow-hay and the forest. As he turned, he caught sight of Elladan kneeling on one knee and peering at a something that he had picked up from the ground, and which gleamed in his hand. A flash of crimson and gold, but Elrohir leaned down and blocked his view then. Gimli thought no more of it but turned back to the cold, beloved face.

Gandalf did not smile but his gaze seemed to alight on something just beyond Gimli that made him infinitely sad. It was Elrohir who took Legolas from Gimli's arms with such gentleness that Gimli could not object, and passed the inert body up to Gandalf. The Wizard took him and held him tenderly, one arm across the Elf's chest, and rested Legolas' head against his own shoulder so it looked like the Elf merely rested. But Elrohir seemed unable to let him go for he held onto the cold hand, all the while staring at the air next to Gimli.

'It is true,' Elrohir said earnestly, and it seemed to Gimli that he almost stroked the air beside them. 'He needs you now. He will follow you for he loves you. You have not betrayed him.’ 

Gimli frowned; it was Gandalf who had betrayed Legolas if anyone had, surely? He had lured Legolas into agreeing to his own death...and yet, he trusted Gandalf absolutely. The Wizard was looking up at the sky anxiously. 'Come Gimli. Get up and stay close. I need you with me.'

Arod stood strangely patient and still, his dark eyes fixed on the space beside Gimli while Elrohir gave the Dwarf a shove up and he swung unsteadily astride Arod. The Half-Elven looked up into Gimli's face and said, 'You will bring him back...I will guard you. They will have to kill me to get past me.'

Even as he spoke, Gimli felt a cold dread creeping over his heart and he saw that both Gandalf and Elladan had turned and faced upwards along the broken road into the cold mountains. He thought he saw shadows between the trees on the high ridge above. There was a swoosh of cold air above. A darker patch of cloud passed over them and he felt his heart freeze in fear.

Gandalf looked down at Elrohir. 'Quickly then,' he said brusquely.

'There are three,' Elrohir told him. 'They will come swiftly now that the night is falling. Gandalf, they...they will do terrible things...Do not let them catch you.'

The Wizard settled Legolas' body carefully. 'Fear for yourself, son of Elrond,' he said tersely and then he stroked his hand over Legolas' face and murmured something Gimli could not hear. Looking back at Gimli, he said, 'Ride close to me, Gimli and do not stray from my side.' And although Gimli said he had no love for horses, Arod moved as smoothly and softly as a lamb. As Gandalf turned Shadowfax, he cast a look back at the sons of Elrond who stood close, heads bent together. 'Do not linger,' he said sternly. 'Follow close.'

At that moment there was a terrible cry faraway in the darkness that gradually descended the mountain. It was answered by another fell voice that filled them all with cold fear. Gimli did not need to urge Arod forwards; the Rohan steed moved quickly to stand with Shadowfax. And although Arod almost trembled with fear, Gimli was glad he had the greatness of heart not to bolt into the night as both their instincts told them they should.

 

o000o

 

Elrohir had watched Gandalf take Legolas from the Dwarf, and murmur something quietly over him. The ghost had dissipated so it no longer had shape but was a pale green light. He had felt his heart crack when the thin, gleaming ribbon had disintegrated in his hands and the threads and sparks had drifted on the breeze. It had shimmered a little more strongly with Gimli close and Gandalf's soft murmuring over him. Elrohir put his hands over his face then as Gandalf drew Gimli close and the horses started off down the broken road. He hated himself. If only he had waited, if only he had not summoned the Nazgul himself, if only he had stayed closer to Legolas...

He saw the Dwarf ride towards Gandalf, and when the ghost drifted close to them, Elrohir felt suddenly bereft, desolate, as if all his world had turned to ash and there was only despair. He felt as he had that gloomy afternoon when he had been left abandoned on the cold grey stones of the Havens and watched until the white sail grew smaller and smaller and then...nothing. But still he had stared, straining to see...

'Brother.' It was Elladan, and he turned to face him, knowing the last time they had spoken he had been brutal, shocking, hateful. 'I thought I had lost you! Whatever was between us, my heart, forgive me.'

Elrohir looked up and stared in disbelief. Elladan looked at him with absolute compassion, love and Elrohir hung his head in shame. 'I do not deserve your forgiveness and you have done nothing to forgive.’

He heard Elladan give a muttered curse and then he was caught in a hard embrace, his head pulled down and muffled in his brother's warm chest. 'What was between us,' Elrohir said against Elladan's chest in sudden despair, 'is of my own making. I have wronged you. I have wronged you, and father, and Legolas, and Arwen and...and...'

Gandalf's call came back to them, 'Do not linger. Follow close.'

Quickly Elladan pressed a finger against his brother's lips and said fiercely, 'Do not say it. Do not speak. I would not know and I forgive you anyway, my heart.'

Elrohir fell to his knees, humbled by the greatness of his brother's love. He bowed his head. 'You should leave me here now!' he declared remorsefully. 'Leave me for the Nazgul to tear apart and it would be no more than I deserve.'

He could not look up at Elladan. He was not worthy to stand with such a pure soul. But he saw his brother's fist clench until the knuckles were white and he heard him ask in a low voice, 'There is only one thing I need to know, that I...’ He struggled to speak and Elrohir waited, knowing it was come to this. ‘Did you ... did you touch her? That is all I need to know. It is all I can bear.'

So. It was time to face all that he was. Time to confess. He rose to his feet and forced himself to look his brother in the eye. He took his brother's face in his hands. Elladan's grey eyes so like his own that it was looking in the mirror and facing himself. Except it was not. It was time...

'No,' he said and he heard his own voice calm and steady though his heart hammered in his chest. 'I did not touch her.' Elladan drew a great breath then that sounded like a sob. Elrohir knew it was relief but that was not the truth of it. 'But Elladan...’ He forced Elladan to look at him, to listen. ‘I hesitated...I...I watched...' He gazed at Elladan with all the anxiety in his heart, of the years and years of guilt, waiting to see his brother's hand raised to strike him. But Elladan stared at him uncomprehending at first. And then as the truth dawned on him, he gave a cry and pulled away.

Elrohir put his hand over his own eyes. How could anyone forgive him? He could never forgive himself.

A thin and terrible cry came down on the wind and he cast a quick glance around them, into the dark trees. Shadows twisted and clung to them. There was no time now and when Elrohir turned to look for Gandalf, he could no longer see the white shape that was Shadowfax. But his own black horse nudged him urgently.

'Elladan!' he called softly, as he swung astride Barakhir. 'Come, we must go quickly.' Elrohir tried to see his brother's face, to see his reaction to the revelation, but Elladan kept his face averted and pulled himself up on his own restless charger. He did not turn to face Elrohir even when he drew his sword. It gleamed frost-white. Pure. Elrohir thought how different it was from his own blade, which thirsted darkly for revenge.

He urged Barakhir after Elladan and their hoofbeats pounded along the track. The horses seemed to know where they were going for soon he glimpsed Shadowfax glimmering ahead of them. He reined in, and Elladan sensing him, pulled back with him.

'We must slow the Nazgul down. Let them go on ahead,' Elrohir said and Elladan nodded curtly, swinging his horse round and joining him. Barakhir pranced a little and shook his great head, the silver bit jangled and his long black mane flowed. Elrohir thought he saw a glimmer of slivery green light bob up and down near where Gandalf had disappeared and he hoped it was not the fading ghost when he heard Gimli cry out in sudden fear.

'They are there already!' he cried and Barakhir surged forwards towards the cry.

And then it was all too late, for the Nazgul descended upon the brothers like wolves.

 

End of Chapter

Aglâbnâla - literally, the River of Words. The litany of the Khazad to Mahal. A bit like a rosary is to Roman Catholics.

When Eru discovered that Mahal had made the Dwarves before the Elves had awoken he was going to destroy them but they pleaded and were afraid. Mahal persuaded Eru not to destroy them.

\-----------------------------


	26. Khamûl

Chapter 26: Khamûl

The Nazgul swept through the air above them, the wings of their foul basilisks pounded the wind in the wake of Shadowfax and Arod. Elladan charged after them, suppressing the doubt, the horror, steeling himself against the lurking fury he felt at his brother’s admission. 

He had watched! Oh, he had not touched her, but he had stood and watched!

Elladan shook his head as if he could rid himself of the images, the feelings, the horror of it, and tightened his grip upon the reins of Baragûr. The black horse leaned against the bit and flattened into a gallop while his rider bit down on his own anger, clenched his fists, wanting to draw his sword ringing from its sheath and drive it through the traitor who galloped ahead of him. He clenched his teeth instead and dug his heels into Baragûr’s sides and the black horse pounded the track along after the fell beasts. 

Baragûr suddenly propped and shied, almost driving into the other black horse for Elrohir had abruptly halted and stood staring ahead of him. Elladan reined in alongside and his eyes grew wide and alarmed. Ahead of them, a huge bank of grey fog rolled and billowed, and of Gandalf or Gimli there was no sign. It was as though the fog had swallowed them. The brothers were no strangers to dark sorcery for in their errantry they had encountered Shadow in many forms and their black horses stood alert, heads up and nostrils wide, though the mist crept forwards and licked around their legs. Barakhir snorted and danced a little, shaking his head.

Elrohir turned to Elladan and said quietly, ‘This is no natural mist. This is the work of the Nazgul.’

Elladan glanced at him, barely quelling his disgust, fighting with his fury. This was his brother who had stood and watched their mother’s rape. He swallowed hard and bit his tongue, aware of the irony even as he said, ‘They seek to drive us apart.’

Baragûr circled nervously, fretting at the silver bit, and though the horses were elven steeds and bred in Imladris, they could not help but fear the mist that curled about them, that felt like cold fingers creeping. 

Elladan felt a strange prickling in his thumbs, and fingertips, and he found his hand had crept towards the pocket of his tunic. He stopped, wondering. What was there? A perfect round shape pressed against his breast and he remembered picking it up from the forest floor and thinking how strange that such a thing came to be there, out in the wilds. Old gold set with a dull red jewel. Dropped by some long dead Gondorian lord when hunting perchance. But in his mind, there was an image conjured...an iron fortress hidden amongst the black mountain in the cold north, strong, and old...

Suddenly above and just behind them came a hoarse cawing, huge leathery wings hissed, and a dark shadow swooped over them, clawing at Elladan. He threw himself low and Baragûr swerved and half-reared in terror as the Nazgul’s fell beast hurtled over them and into the banked fog. Elladan stared after it, breathing hard, soothing the horse gently but he felt its trembling and he took his feet from the stirrups and slid down. 

‘We must go on foot it seems. I dare not ride into that mist with these monsters flying,’ he told Elrohir, whose own horse was snorting and unsettled. 

Elrohir had already dismounted by the time he finished speaking. ‘It will be easier to fight on our own feet,’ he agreed. 

The brothers stood together for a moment, looking at the billowing grey bank of fog. Elladan steeled his heart, and again he fought down the bile that rose in his throat and mouth at the thought of his brother standing there, while their mother...

‘...They are wary of Aicánaro.’ Elrohir was saying and Elladan swallowed hard, gripping his own sword.

‘With good reason,’ he ground the words out, and it sounded as if they came from far away. ‘Wrought with magic as he is, I was never easy that you had taken him but now I am glad...’

And then, oblivious, Elrohir was walking forwards, so confident that Elladan was with him. His dark sword gleamed dully in his hand as he walked into the mist. 

For a moment Elladan hesitated, but this was for Legolas who had been wronged by his brother, and for Gimli who stood so firmly beside an Elf. So he drew his own pure frost-white blade and followed his brother. Their black horses followed, ears pricked and nostril flared.

The fog thickened around him, drifting into ghoulish shapes, long gnarled fingers, tendrils; it clung to him and caught in his hair, threaded its way beneath his clothes and slicked against his skin. When he breathed, the air was oily, it felt corrupting somehow. Elladan shuddered. The mist billowed stealthily, its white folds dissipated and then twisted into insubstantial ghouls.... it caught in his throat as he breathed. Like oil, like he was suffocating, he could not breathe.

He heard a rasp of steel and turned, blood thundering in his ears, in his chest, breath in short, quick gasps.

‘Elrohir?’ he barely whispered, just wanting to hear another voice. 

‘It is I,’ came the reply, but Elrohir’s voice was strained and Elladan wondered if he sounded the same.

Suddenly he felt a cold wind and his hair was blown back. He ducked, dragging Elrohir with him and the air beat around them. A rancid stink, warm and salty like rotting meat, hit him and the half-formed creature screamed as it passed. A talon raked his scalp. The brothers crouched low, eyes wide and staring upwards, swords held ready to plunge into the creature’s belly should it pass so low again and Elladan cursed that he had no bow for the creature wheeled and sailed above them for a moment before plunging again into the fog. 

A Nazgul’s thin wail sounded above them and faded into the distance. He could hear his own breath fast and loud and his heart beat, blood thumped.

Suddenly there was a terrified whinny. A horse. And then a shout of outrage and pain. 

‘That was Gimli.’ Elrohir stood straight, staring after the huge winged beasts . 

Elladan drew upright and stood with him peering into the fog. ‘Can you tell where it came from?’ he asked. 

They could see nothing and the fog swayed and merged and clung closer to them, so cold drops misted their skin, their hair, their clothes. A cold, perfect circle pressed against his breast and he thought of their mother, alone in that terrible place, while Elrohir leered and watched...He found his hand gripping his sword pommel so hard his fingertips prickled and his thumbs almost hurt with tingling. 

A darkness loomed in front of him suddenly from the mist and he felt his throat stick, his hair lifted on end. ‘There!’ he whispered hoarsely and he could sense them again, a cold presence stalking, unhurried.

‘Before you or to the side?’ he heard Elrohir whisper back.

‘In front.’

‘Is it still there?’

He peered into the gloom, straining his eyes, his ears. The mist moved slightly and darkness shadowed it. ‘Yes,’ he said. 

Suddenly from far away, he heard a distant shout from Gandalf and then Shadowfax whinnied tremulously..There was a burst of light, steel clashing and a horrible mix of the winged beast’s hoarse cawing and the Nazgul’s ear-piercing scream. And then another joined it. The brothers listened, horrified. Baragûr snorted softly and he quickly put his hand over the horse’s velvet nose to quieten him

‘Be strong, Elladan,’ he heard Elrohir whisper as though he could hear his heart pound. ‘Your sword is bright and thirsty.’

He nodded though he knew Elrohir could not see him. He felt his brother tense and he stepped into the mist, and vanished from Elladan’s sight. Barakhir was there for a moment, following, and then gone.

‘Wait!’ he cried and he reached out to catch his brother’s arm but too late and his hands closed on mist. 

There was a clash of steel, he heard Elrohir shout a challenge and then a curse. Barakhir whinnied and his own horse shied, prancing and tearing the reins from Elladan’s hand, and was gone.

His nerves jangled. He peered through the fog and gave a low whistle. Nothing. No horse. No Elrohir. He eased himself forward and the fog felt viscous, sinuous and moved around him. Straining his eyes, all his senses, searching for his brother, terrified of what he might hear, what he might find. For the first time in an age, he felt afraid. Not of death. Not of being wounded. Just...fear. Like an animal that is cornered, hunted. The inevitable waiting...he had seen it in the eyes of those he had killed, and those that thought they would be killed...

He blinked. Fear. It is just fear, he reminded himself, though he recoiled from the thought of suffocation which was his own horror, and clasped his sword instead, letting his senses ease out from his own body and slide into the clammy mist.

Just fear, he told himself again, deliberately calm. Think. Feel....He felt a cold circle against his chest, and the image of the iron-dark fortress floated in his mind, a darkness pressed against his will, cold tendrils crept down his spine...and he felt their awareness shift towards him, felt their reach....

‘Elrohir!’ he whispered, peering into the gloom, knowing as he did so that his brother was out there and a Nazgul hid in the folds of the mist. He moved a little to his left, not wanting to go far in case Elrohir returned but knowing he had betrayed his own position.

Slowly, he eased his way through the smothering mist, breathless with fear, sword held before him. He let his senses ease out once more and was aware that the Nazgul paced alongside, not far. He held onto his heart, resisting the urge to run, to flee, to fight his way from this smothering suffocation, wanting to breathe the air, feel the wind...clammy tendrils snaked up his limbs and weighed him down.

A hiss of cold breath ghosted over his cheek. He froze momentarily and then threw himself back, felt the graze of a steel blade and instinctively rolled away and up onto his feet. He came up, crouched and ready to lunge but there was nothing, only the clammy mist. Elladan glanced behind him briefly, knowing the wraiths were close, tracking him and in that moment of inattention, something lunged out of the mist, a blunt reptilian head, jaws split wide and gaping, fangs and a stink of rancid breath blasted him, like old blood and rotting meat as the jaws snapped shut close, too close beside his head. He scythed his blade upwards and he was spattered with blood. An ear-splitting shriek pierced the air and the huge reptilian shape shuffled back, waving its head and snarling, lumbering away. Wounded, not killed. More dangerous now in its pain. 

Liquid dark dripped from his blade and he stared down at it, heart pounding, blood thumping in his veins. The mist curled around his feet, knees, slid up his thighs and coiled around him...its cold tendrils seemed almost alive. He stepped back as if he could escape its coils.

It reminded him of the close horror of the Orc den where they had found their mother... the sense of evil pressing close, beneath his skin. The stench of dried blood and bones, and putrefying meat was the same as the foul stink of those corrupted, half-formed beasts. The darkness seemed thicker than air, like viscous liquid, like thick water- oil perhaps… like the oily suffocating smog...and he remembered that Elrohir had watched. He had watched their mother... 

Sudden hot anger and fury blazed through his blood. He had stood and watched! 

And at that moment, something brushed against him and he swung his sword in a wide arc through the white fog, which merely slipped around the blade that could cut silk. A blade clashed against his and he forced it back and slashed low, felt it sink into flesh. Triumphantly, he lunged forwards again, slashing his blade against another that matched him, yielded a little, said something...a cry and he felt a warm shape stumble against him. 

‘Elrohir!’ With horror he realised what he had done, felt Elrohir sink against him and clasped him. 

‘It is all right. Only a scratch,’ Elrohir said quietly. He stilled and lay his hand on Elladan’s arm to quiet him. ‘Are you injured?’ he heard Elrohir ask him. He shook his head and then remembered. 

‘No. You?’ he asked breathlessly.

‘Was that the Nazgul’s beast screaming?’ 

‘Yes. Is its rider still before you?’ 

‘No.’ Quietly. And then even more quietly, ‘It is as you said....they are wary of Aicánaro.’

Then Elrohir whispered, ‘On guard, brother!’

Elladan leapt up and felt Elrohir struggle to his feet. They stood back to back and he felt his brother’s warmth at his back. He felt a surge of emotion; love and disgust and anger. But no time for that now, he told himself and clenched his teeth against it. 

‘How many of them are here?’ Elrohir asked over his shoulder and wrenched Elladan back to the present.

Elladan blinked slowly, letting his senses ease out into the fog. ‘There is one close by...very close. Its mount is also out there.’ He paused, forcing himself to calm, letting his blood settle the better to fight. He felt their presence...felt the cold creep into his bones and knew they were close. ‘Two of the brethren are with the Zigûrun...’ he said softly and his hand crept over his breast. The iron fortress again in his mind, hidden amongst the black mountain in the cold north, strong, and old...

He felt Elrohir shift against him and felt his hand on his shoulder. ‘What say you, brother? You speak strangely. Do the Nazgul infest your mind?’ 

Elladan blinked again, and wondered if he was right. He could feel them, their cold presence drifting, searching... they scented the trail like hounds. He forced himself back to himself, to inhabit his own skin and it felt strange to feel the blood bang in his veins, the stretch of sinew and muscle. 

‘Where did you go?’ he said instead of answering his brother’s question and though he tried to listen to the answer, he could not focus. Instead he watched the dark shadows that crept closer, hidden to all others in the fog, but he could see them, he could see the red fire burning in them...could smell the hunger in their empty, sunken bellies, could see the starvation in their spirits and how they wanted the light of the nimir that fled before them...ah...so...close....

‘...I did not find him.’ Elrohir was speaking. ‘I came back when I knew you were not with me.’ Elrohir paused and Elladan felt him stiffen, listening and he too became still, listening, feeling the currents of air swirl and eddy, peering out into the mist. 

‘We must find them...Gandalf and Gimli...Legolas...’ He seemed to choke on the name. ‘We cannot stay here,’ Elrohir was saying and he reached back to grasp Elladan’s sleeve. Elladan recoiled at the touch...he did not want that...

‘I saw a flash over there,’ Elrohir spoke on, oblivious to his brother’s thoughts. 

But then he always was, an unkind voice in Elladan’s head spoke, cold and bitter. 

‘I think it must be Gandalf...’ Elrohir quickened his steps, tugging at Elladan. ‘Did you hear that? That is swords clashing. And someone is shouting. There! Horses too. Hold onto me this time.’ Elrohir grabbed his sleeve and pulled him into the fog. It seemed to huddle closer to them, wrapping itself around them, coiling about them. The huge dark shapes circled in the mist overhead.

Elladan closed his eyes briefly, stumbled after him. And then...he felt a hard cold hunger tracking them and then a nerve-shattering sneer against his mind. Close. The air moved slightly. 

Instantly he stepped back and swung his blade out into the fog. Clashing steel met steel and slid off. He spun round on one foot and lashed out with his other. It caught on something solid, metal not flesh; he did not think, but charged, whirling the sword in both hands before him. It caught again on steel and he wrestled with it, the blade sliding up to the pommel of his own sword and he heard a hissing, felt cold breath on his cheek and suddenly, all his strength leeched slowly from his arms as he fought. The unclean air clamped over his mouth, damped in his lungs and he gasped for air...abruptly he pulled away and could breathe. Panting he swept his sword out in front of him...nothing. 

He stepped back and dropped into a guard position, breathing hard and frowning in concentration. He must resist. He was Elladan Elrondion, of the house of Earendil and Luthien. With effort, he lifted his sword, aware of how his muscles burned and strained, how heavy the sword was, how tired he was. He blinked and shook his head. 

There was a strange pulse of warmth at his breast. He glanced down, wondering. One hand lifted, as if it were not his own, to brush against the warmth, the hard, round shape within his tunic. The Ring he had picked up. For a moment when he looked up, he thought he saw through the mist an unearthly red luminescence, thinly shrouded in black cloth... he smelled the cold hunger ...Khamûl. 

...Weakling! he thought with contempt...And he frowned, surprised at himself. 

The Nazgul halted abruptly as though he had heard the words spoken. Then slowly it turned and faced Elladan. It took a step forwards, towards him. 

...Old power. Old strength. Old and vain.... Angmar....

Khamul. He knew this was Khamul, but did not know how he knew... 

The Nazgul paused and its hood turned towards the Half-Elf, the great broadsword in his hand but not raised to strike. A low hiss. 

...Vain and ...dead... Nine we were and now we are eight. You are not Rávëyon... It turned away and stalked into the mist leaving a fading sneer.... You are nothing.... 

Elladan let his hand drop to his side and leaned on his sword briefly. He took a breath of the clammy air and it slipped down his throat, into his nostrils, around his face...Khamul hunted; he desired the light more than Morgoth desired the Silmarils...it had always weakened him amongst the Bretheren.

He pushed forwards through the fog, and now, strangely, it broke and dissipated before him and rolled back behind him. Sword sheathed for somehow he felt he no longer needed it, and in his veins was an old power, a cold alien strength that noticed an emptiness where an iron crown should be, that felt the throb of blood in veins and stretched his sinew, muscle...It was not chance that led him to Gimli therefore, but the strange alien awareness, the old power that brought him to where the Dwarf lay, knowing that the ghost would return to his friend’s side, would not abandon him.

Gimli lay face down on the hard cold ground, his body twisted at an unnatural angle. The Rohan horse stood trembling nearby but it did not bolt. 

Elladan felt as though he were watching from somewhere outside his own body, watched himself as he strode forwards.

The ghost knelt over the Dwarf, a light of pale green leaves pouring off the ghost and tiny sparks seemed to drift into the cold air, the long hair floated around him as if he were in a warm sunlit pool and his hands brushed uselessly against the Dwarf. 

Elladan stepped towards the ghost, reaching out again, and something in his tunic shifted, the old Ring, and it weighed him down. Cold drew down his skin, and darkness loomed slowly around him, like a cloak, like his own shadow it reached around and above him and his limbs slowed even more. He stood over the kneeling ghost, and it looked up at him in fear, shrank away, lifting its hands as if to ward him off. He thought he would feel pity but instead, an unfamiliar lust coursed through his veins.

He reached out again towards the ghost and caught its edge on his fingertips. He knew instantly the Nimir’s plan; it had seemed to flee before the Brethren, and lured them away from where this one lay, the tamar-urud, the Dwarf; it tricked them as it always had under the dark eaves of Agannâlo...The tamar-urud lay twisted on the ground but was not dead, for he could smell the blood. He scooped a little of the Nimir’s light to himself and the sensation was of sinking down into a pool of warm, sunlit water; he let the warmth soak into his cold bones. He opened his eyes and looked, and it was like he had never seen before with such clarity, with such keeness of sight. 

The cold iron circle at his breast surged power through his veins and he curled his fingers and drew the Nimir closer. This would make him strong. Cold power, old strength would return. The Nimir could not resist and though it fought him with all it had left, he brought it closer and then he reached for it once more...

‘Elladan!’ He felt something crash into him and his feet were swept from under him and he was on his back. He rolled and leapt to his feet, pulling his frost-white blade in one smooth move and two-handed swept it down on his assailant. Elrohir! Without pause he slashed downwards but black Aicánaro clanged against him and strong arms shoved him back.

‘What are you doing?’ his brother shouted.

‘What I should have done before!’ Elladan snarled and a rage entered his heart as he had never felt in all his long life. Even in slaying the orcs of the mountain who had raped his beloved, gentle mother he had not felt the keen edge of his hatred as he did for his brother now. Because he realised he hated Elrohir. Hated him! For standing and watching! For lying! For letting him guard him, for standing with him at his back, but having stood and watched! 

He raised his sword and brought it down again, this time forcing Elrohir down to his knees. He knew his brother was tired, could feel his exhaustion for he had fought the Nazgul and brought the ghost down the mountain. He lifted his own sword again and smashed it down against Aicánaro with all his might, shouting into the air as he did. 

‘You watched! You stood and watched!’ And the metal against metal shuddered and scraped. And then suddenly he was above Elrohir and he did not care that he sliced his blade against the dark sword, driving past his brother’s guard, wrestling him to thrust his blade into his brother’s treacherous heart. Elrohir managed to struggle to his knees and shoved Elladan so he staggered back.

‘Kill me then!’ Elrohir shouted and Elladan leapt forwards gladly, grasping his brother by his throat. ‘I deserve it! Kill me and put me out of my despair and misery. Only save Legolas and Gimli!’ he pleaded. ‘I will gladly kneel before you so you may take my life!’

He stood astride his brother, gripping Elrohir’s throat with one hand and in the other his sword poised to pierce his brother through. He paused and stared. A pale green glow enveloped Elladan then and he thought he could smell meadowgrass and hay, thought of shady woods and cool streams over granite boulders... 

Suddenly he cried out and pushed Elrohir away. What madness had possessed him?

He threw his sword to the ground in horror and stepped back, covering his eyes with his hands and moaned. 

A hiss of laughter like old bones and gristle....You have lost, Rávëyon...I will have your nûph zirân at last.... 

Elladan spun round to see Khamul emerge from the mist, and as the Nazgul strode towards the Dwarf it raised its hand slightly, almost casually. A terrible fear clutched at Elladan and the mist coiled about him and slowly, slowly clamped over his mouth once more so he fought for breath, could not move, could only watch as the Nazgul turned away, as if the sons of Elrond no longer counted. In its gauntletted hand it held a cold blade and it drew close to the Dwarf. The ghost looked up in fear, scuttling back away from the approaching Wraith but it could not bring itself to leave the Dwarf completely and its hand clutched the Dwarf’s as if somehow it could protect him. 

...You thought to trick me again but this is not Agannâlo. Did you think Rávëyon would save you? Look at him! He is nothing. He is cast about by my own spell now and will not help you... No one will....

The Nazgul stood over the Dwarf, its thin black shroud lifted slightly in the breeze, looking down at where the ghost cringed in fear but would not leave.

...I knew you would come here though you sought to draw me away. Zirân! Do you see how easy you are to defeat? Such power I have over you because you love... A scrape of steel as the Nazgul drew its broadsword and lay it across Gimli’s pulsing throat. It raised its head and scented the air, like a predator...Ah... smell the blood...it squeezes through the veins...

The thin ghost bowed its head in resignation then and the Nazgul beckoned, its contempt dripped like poison... Love after all, is why you are still here. It is why the sea calls your restless heart.. because he asked you, Elessar... knowing what he knew, knowing Pelargir was near enough the sea. He still asked you and you, like an obedient dog, you followed him and have lost ...everything... 

Elladan could not move, he felt his lungs heaving as the damp air slid into his throat and lungs and there was not enough air to breathe; he clutched his chest, his throat, suffocating while the wraith drew the ghost inexorably towards itself, extended again its mail-clad hand with its iron talons and beckoned once more.

...Now. Come to me, yôzâira. Yield for I know you too well, Nimir. If I take him now, he will never sleep in the Halls of Mazarbul and his story will be lost.... 

It leaned forwards a little as if to reach out to the ghost, as if it could taste it.

...Yield. I hunger....

Lasciviously the Nazgul shifted towards the ghost and held out its cold hand like a lover. The ghost let its head drop and it seemed to slump and then slowly, reluctantly, it drew closer to the Dwarf.

...Yield to me your sweet tender light, or I will spare him nothing....

The ghost paused and looked at the sons of Elrond for a moment, Elladan heard Elrohir give a cry and the ghost raised its head defiantly and took a step that brought it within grasp of the Nazgul. 

And then suddenly Elrohir leapt forwards, ripping his shirt open, baring his chest.‘Take me instead! You swore to me, Khamul!’ he cried, and his voice trembled with desperation. ‘You swore to me you would give him to me! He is my prize!’

Elrohir threw himself to his knees before the Nazgul, his chest bared and head thrown back so his long black hair streamed behind him, but the Nazgul was merely amused.

....Your prize? But you had to take him and you could not...You are not what we thought. Your promises are empty... Come look upon what I would have given you...

The Nazgul passed an iron clawed hand before Elrohir and he stopped, stunned. For a long moment it seemed to Elladan that his brother was seeing something else, something he could not. He saw the stiffening of his brother’s limbs, his eyes wide and dilated, the quickness of his breath and then a voice grated nearby...at his shoulder so close he felt its breath on his ear.

...Do you know what he sees? He stood and watched...he watched and he dreams of it... But he does not want to only watch this time...Look...’

And the mist seemed to whirl about the ghost and merge with it, to pool and form an image; he saw a figure bound before him, long golden hair, yellow like sunshine, it swept down against the lean form and a darkness stood behind it, hands roaming over the bound form so it cried out in fear.

‘No!’ It was Elrohir who cried out. Instantly the Nazgul’s sword pressed so there was a thin trickle of blood from Gimli’s throat. Elrohir fell forwards submissively onto his hands and his hair hung around him, hiding him. ‘Take me instead!’

Elladan reeled back in horror. No. Surely it could not be? Elrohir could never have made some sort of pact with the Nazgul. It could not be! And Legolas was the prize...He felt bile in his throat and again, as his fingers flew to his face, he brushed the cold ring and it pulsed, warmed him, spoke to him of power. He could stop this now if he wished. He could end that miserable life. He could make Elrohir yield. He could take back Legolas and heal him. He could... 

He stopped, realising that somehow he had brought the cold Ring from his tunic and it was poised on his finger. He stared. And then, with a terrible understanding, he knew this was a great evil he had brought with him. It had power to corrupt him. He knew its smell. He knew its taint of darkness and knew Khamul too, had felt it.

...Angmar...he knew then. And it was not for him but Elrohir. 

Mockingly, knowingly, the Nazgul tilted its head to one side in a horribly familiar gesture. 

‘I will beg!’ cried Elrohir and he shuffled forwards as if to clutch the Nazgul round its knees. 

With utter contempt, Khamul lifted a mail-clad foot and slowly pushed Elrohir away like he was some cur. Elrohir fell weeping to the ground, hopeless and ashamed and curled up useless and beaten, submissive to the Nazgul’s dreadful will, dark-bladed Aicánaro clutched quiet in his hand. 

...You both disappoint me. But you will learn when you are with me in the shadows... 

The Nazgul turned back to Legolas’ ghost, and sighed with longing and hunger.

...Yôzâira.... 

And suddenly the Nazgul plunged its taloned claw into the poor ghost’s chest and twisted deeply. Legolas’ ghost arched and writhed, impaled on the Nazgul’s iron-clad fist, clutching ineffectually at the Nazgul’s iron grip that tore into him, wrenched his heart. The ghost’s pale green light, the light that had been like sunlight through young beech leaves, dimmed, bled at the edges, seared, singed, curled like burning paper. The Nazgul threw back its head in ecstasy and dug deeper, its fist wrenched and twisted in the ghost’s chest and it writhed and struggled on the iron stake of the Nazgul’s fist. There was no sound but Elladan distantly felt the Song tear and shred in the mute screaming.

....You thought you would escape me, Yôzâira, Khamul panted, sneering. Ah, I have longed for this moment; sweet is your flesh, your fire young and fierce but so tender...I would that Azgarâzir could see you thus. It would break his heart ...’ 

And then suddenly there was a blur of movement, Elrohir had lunged upwards, sword stabbing through the thin black shroud. A high-pitched screeching began that was the Nazgul’s pain and Elladan could move. He charged forwards with his sword held aloft and brought it heavily down on the Nazgul’s iron helm even as Elrohir’s dark bladed Aicánaro drove deeply, but the Nazgul was already beating into crumpled iron, shrivelling beneath its thin black shroud, battered by time it had held at bay with its dark sorcery now undone by dark Aicánaro. A terrible thin screaming ripped into Elladan’s ears and he almost dropped his sword but dared not, stabbing and stabbing again though he knew it was the dark blade. Aicánaro that had destroyed the Nazgul, taken from the lost hoard so long ago and reforged to fit another hand, wrought about by dark magic and sorcery even as the Nazgul themselves...

....Aicánaro...Betrayer...

Words screamed and echoed in the minds of the brothers but there was nothing now that could speak them...Elladan’s frost-white sword clanged against the Nazgul’s beaten, empty armour and it reeled and slowly toppled. Something small and round spun in the empty air and then dropped heavily to the ground.

...Rávëyon....

The word hung for a moment in the air and then dissipated and with it, the mist. There was a horrible high-pitched shrieking and huge reptilian wings beat the air into a pounding wind around them Elladan felt his hair pulled back in the wind and he fell on his knees beside his brother. He could not look at him but bowed his own head for his own shame. 

 

tbc

Translations 

(The Nazgul would have spoken Adunaic, either as Men of Numenor themselves or by mixing with Men of Numenor they would have acquired these words to describe things they had not encountered in their own lands. For example, Elves and Wizards were not encountered by Khamul before he came into the service of Sauron.)

Zigûrun Adunaic for Wizard, as distinct from wise-man. User of invoked force, magic rather than wisdom or natural magic.

nimir- shining one. Numenor called the Elves nimir. Even more so in the case of a dispossessed ghost such as Legolas has become.

tamar- urud - A variaition of Adnunaic from Angmar’s region, meaning mountain- smith (literally) or dwarf.

zirân – fool

nûph zirân - beloved fool  
yôzâira – gift of longing. This is what the Nazgul called Legolas to Elrohir - his yôzâira

Agannâlo – Nazgul's name for Mirkwood. Literally death-shadow.

Azgarâzir –The Nazgul's name for Thranduil, whom they hate more than any Elf alive.

\----------------


	27. Fireflies

Chapter 27: Fireflies

 

Elrohir staggered to his feet and over to Gimli, only dimly aware of Elladan and Gandalf, the Wizard hastening towards the Dwarf. Elrohir held his hand out hesitantly, urgently to the fading ghost where it had sunk exhausted to its knees over the unconscious Dwarf, its head resting on Gimli’s breast. 

‘Stay,’ he said desperately. At his words, it raised its head weakly. 

He fumbled at his breast. The Ring. The Ring would heal the ghost, make him whole. His fingers scrambled furiously but found nothing...he dug his hands deep, searching. Nothing. Panicked he pushed his hands between the folds of his tunic, beneath his belt, beneath his shirt, into his boots. Heart pounding he glanced at the ghost. Its light was almost gone, shrunk to only the narrow space of its heart, and light seemed to bleed from it, leaking over Gimli’s still body so the Dwarf seemed to glow softly. 

‘No!’ Elrohir tried to catch the light, sweeping up the wisps and sparks, tried to staunch the bleeding of light from the ghost’s weakening form. 

‘Get out of the way!’ He was rudely shoved aside and Gandalf was there. ‘You, stand guard against those fiends. They will be back,’ the Wizard said grimly. He pushed Elrohir to his feet. ‘Stand up man! Give me some room. Elladan. Here. Hold his body for me. That’s right, lay him down here. Carefully!’ 

Elrohir staggered to his feet and stared out. The mist had gone but it was dark now. The moon had risen, he had no idea when, but its silver light glowed in the sky and cast strong shadows; it was so bright. The sound of hoofbeats heralded the three horses and Shadowfax appeared, followed by his own and his brother’s black steeds. They stood silently like statues, waiting, but the Rohan horse would not leave the Elf’s still body, or the Dwarf’s. Gandalf pushed back the sleeves of his white robes and knelt beside the body, coaxing the ghost to him.

Elrohir felt a sudden prick of tears, unfamiliar and unwelcome. ‘Where were you?’ he demanded angrily. ‘You let Gimli fall and it was we who found him, defended him! If it had not been for us, Khamul would have devoured Legolas!’

‘Really.’ Gandalf turned sharp blue eyes on Elrohir but he did not back down. ‘And there was only one Nazgul was there? Or have you forgotten there were three other Nazgul and three other beasts to go with them?’

Elrohir stared at him for a moment. Then he said, ‘They were distracting you to leave Khamul free to pursue Legolas.’

‘Distracting is not a word I would use. Attacking maybe. Fighting. Diving and wheeling and coming at me from three sides perhaps.’ Gandalf’s sarcasm was hard edged and irritated. ‘I thought you and your brother could deal with one on your own.’ He rose to his feet then, leaning on his staff as if a great weariness had come over him.

Elrohir saw then the dirty smears on Gandalf’s white robes, the blood on his face and a thin scar on his cheek. Shadowfax too had a long gash on his flank where a winged beast had ripped at him. ‘The flashes of light were you,’ he surmised and Gandalf glanced at him.

‘What did you think I was doing? Any more foolish questions and I will leave you on your own next time. Now watch the sky,’ the Wizard snapped. ‘They will come back. They will not leave that.’ He nodded towards something small and shining in the moonlight. A Ring. Khamûl’s Ring of Power.

Elrohir’s heart leapt and he reached towards it. 

‘Stop! What are you doing, you fool?’ Gandalf took a step towards him, hand uplifted as if to blast him should he take another step.

‘The Ring!’ Elohir said desperately, hopefully. ‘It will heal him. The Nazgul said what the blade unmakes the Ring can make anew. This is not Angmar’s but surely it will do the same!’

‘Oh I am sure it told you that,’ Gandalf told him disapprovingly, and he placed his staff firmly in front of the Ring; Elrohir would have had to fight his way to it. ‘It would indeed put his spirit back, but he would be a thrall to whomsoever used the Ring. A slave, with no will of his own, no thoughts but those of his Master. And if it were you who used it to heal him, he would be thrall to you. And in time, you would join them and know no longer the life you know now, but become a Wraith. A formidable weapon indeed...’ 

He paused briefly and then said more gently, ‘Now come. Elladan, I need your help. And you, Elrohir, I will want to have a look at that sword of yours later. But you are exhausted now and I need strength with this. I need you to watch for them. They will not leave this here, but I think they will have lost the appetite for battle. Legolas has not much time. He is almost at his last gasp.’

Elrohir turned before either of his companions saw the despair in his eyes. But he wrenched his thoughts away from his own misery and focused on the sky, on listening and feeling for the return of the Ringwraiths.

Above him the stars were hard and bright in spite of the moon and he hoped the clear starsong would help Legolas. A cold breeze drifted through the trees from the mountain. He listened to the muted voices behind him and then, unexpectedly, Elladan joined him.

A wave of power surged softly round them.

‘Gandalf is putting a warding spell around us,’ Elladan said softly, looking up at the stars. He did not look at Elrohir and Elrohir expected nothing. They stood in silence, shoulder to shoulder but Elrohir felt there was an insurmountable wall between them now and his shoulders slumped in utter misery; he had confessed to his brother that he had stood and watched their mother’s rape. How could Elladan ever speak to him again?

He heard Gandalf’s murmured enchantments and there was a softer white light that bathed him then. Elrohir could not help but glance over his shoulder and see. Gandalf had sunk to his knees once more and was holding Legolas’ body gently. The ghost was almost gone, its thin light faded and the thin wisps of light were scattered in the cold unkind wind that blew dry leaves around them. Elrohir dropped his head for a moment in despair and looked again at the Nazgul’s Ring. It was so close.

Far away he heard something, the rustle of dry leathery wings, and his fingertips prickled. Elladan too stirred and his hand brushed the pocket of his tunic although Elrohir did not know why. He glanced over his shoulder to see Gandalf still knelt over the body but he had bowed his head now as if exhausted. 

‘Mithrandir,’ he turned and knew he stank of defeat and dishonour. The Wizard glanced at him and nodded. 

‘Yes. I feel them too. I need more time, just a little.’ He bent his head, silvered by the moon. 

Elrohir followed the threads of light that drifted and seemed to cling for a moment to the stirring Dwarf. He reached down and briefly held his hand against Gimli’s head, let his own energy and light pour into the dwarf until he felt Gimli’s awareness return ‘He’s awake,’ he murmured to Gandalf.

‘Ah. Good. That makes me feel better,’ Gandalf said quietly, ‘Keep watch now, both of you, I need to concentrate. Do not think they have given up. They have not.’ 

Elrohir looked away again and focused on the sky, watching through a blur of tears he fought for the moment when the stars and then the moon were blotted out one by one... Nothing. Yet. 

 

oo0o0o

 

Gimli swam in a mist, and it softly rolled him like the sea of Rhûn, where he had once played as a child... No, he had been there with a merchant caravan... No... Ah, he could not remember. Dimly though, he knew there was a mist... It clung like a nightmare, had descended upon them... And Tharkûn had been there... They had been riding and... He grasped for meaning in the confusion of images that rocked and swirled in his head. His head...hurt! They had been trying to get away from something...Tharkûn had been urging him to keep up, to think on Legolas, to keep going and not look back. The mist had descended suddenly, making the already dark forest even darker. The pine trees had stood out starkly black, looming out of the mist and the broken road veered off suddenly. Gimli had not recognised any of this.

Great shadows had swept overhead - great beat of wings - pounding against the air and creating such a wind. It reminded him of when he was young and listened to tales of Smaug. The wind had torn at his hair, and his beard swept back over his shoulder. 

Fear... fear such as he had felt but once... no... twice before... Perhaps more, but before, a tall, strong figure was at his back and long pale hair flicking in his face.... 

Gimli struggled now, it was almost there and his fingers twitched. There had been the horse of Rohan beneath him, he could see its long grey neck before him, head high and ears twitching nervously. It had trembled and snorted in fear, shied at the great shadows that swept over it. Gimli’s fingers twitched again, remembering how he had clung to the mane tightly, and he felt himself slipping sideways with no one to hold onto. Suddenly the Nazgul... ah, yes, of course...the Nazgul had dived over them and the thin wail approached him like some great tidal wave and Arod had shifted and swerved violently out of its way. 

Gimli felt a throb of pain as he remembered the talons scrape the top of his head and he had slid, slipped sideways and felt himself falling, his legs still around the horse, but it was suddenly too much and Arod had baulked and veered sideways. Gimli remembered that the ground had hit him hard. For a moment he had thought he would die and all the air had rushed out of his lungs and the stony dirt scraped his cheek as he had slid along the hard earth. There seemed to be a thousand felakgundu tapping away in his head.

He lay still. Remembering. And he had seen a pale ghostly face peering down at him with anxious, frightened eyes and thought of Legolas alone in the great darkness that wheeled and swooped over him. Gimli groaned softly and tried to move his fingers. Instantly there was a wash of warmth over him and a soft green light seemed to enfold him. He felt such comfort that he thought he was in his own bed in the mountain. But his fingertips felt rough scratchy earth and stones beneath, and his mind reeled, trying to make sense of it. 

The felakgundu took up their hammers again and he groaned, but this time the comfort was more tangible; a warm hand pressed lightly on his forehead. He cracked open one eye. Someone leaned over him, but with only half his attention on Gimli, for whoever it was looked over his shoulder into the darkness, and there was a sense of anxiety and fear. Gimli shifted, realising a stone was digging into his hip and he was sore. His ribs hurt and his back, his arm felt useless but he could move his fingers so he thought he was bruised but not broken, and was absurdly pleased with himself for surviving such a fall from a horse.

He moved his head minutely, fighting back nausea and the hammering in his head, to see a dim outline of three figures. He peered from slitted eyes.

‘He is awake,’ a hushed voice said.

‘Ah.Good. That makes me feel better,’ a familiar voice spoke next. Gimli frowned, struggling to remember. He had a sense of dread and fear but he did not think it came from these voices. The familiar voice continued quietly, ‘Keep watch now, both of you, I need to concentrate. Do not think they will not return. They will.’ 

Gimli recognised that kindly gruffness. Gandalf. It began to come back to him. He was one of the Fellowship. They were on the quest. Frodo had the Ring... Frodo...he would have shaken his head were it not so uncomfortable. Aragorn was... Aragorn as not here, he thought. He was here with Gandalf...and ...

The image of the strange pale green light drifted into his mind once more. It had leaned over him with concern, seeking to press its insubstantial hands onto his chest, trying to warm him... Legolas...? Legolas? 

He turned his head slightly in sudden fear. He struggled to sit up and the three figures nearby turned suddenly and looked at him. 

Gandalf smiled, and Elrohir, yes, he remembered now... Elrohir gently pushed him back down. 

‘Rest a moment more, Master Gimli. You will recover more quickly when we have to move if you take it slowly now.’ 

Elrohir. yes. Son of Elrond. A crimson warmth suffused Gimli at Elrohir’s touch and he felt comforted. He grunted agreement and lay back, watching as Elrohir rose to his feet. He stood and stars crowned his head. Stars. The sky was clear. Unaccountably he felt a surge of relief with that knowledge.

Elrohir suddenly leaned over him and Gimli felt a tremendous warmth. Elrohir pulled Gimli’s cloak around the Dwarf and it was soft, light. He thought of Galadriel and smiled.

‘... there is so little here,’ another voice drifted in and out of Gimli’s consciousness. Elladan he thought, recognizing the lighter cadences of the other brother. ‘The Nazgul did indeed devour him... Is there yet a chance...?’ A hesitance and then, ‘Did not my brother say the Ring...’

‘And I have told you; no!’ Gimli heard the Wizard’s robes swish and his voice was brittle with anger. ‘Would you heal him only to become that which we have struggled to save him from?’

Gimli turned his head slightly, gently, to watch. Elladan was crouching near a slumped figure and Gandalf stood, leaning on his staff, looking down. An unearthly light shone dimly on their faces, casting shadows on the Wizard’s face but he leaned heavily on his staff as if he were almost in despair. Gimli frowned but it hurt his head to do that so he stopped. He had never seen Gandalf despair. 

‘So much has been lost... drifted off. There will be sparks and wisps...’ Gandalf sighed again and it seemed to Gimli that it would be like the deep breath of the sea. 

It was then Gimli noticed the first firefly. It hovered above him as if it was concerned and he smiled, feeling a great wave of emotion in his heart, though he knew not why. Another joined it and he marveled that these tiny wisps of light could survive, so oblivious to the chill, the evil, the danger of the world. He reached out with his good hand and the tiny wisps flocked to him. He laughed softly, there was a bright green fragrance like moss and ferns and the Woods after rain, joy bubbled in his heart. The fireflies clung to him as if happy to see him and he smiled for one was bright and intense, like the young leaves of a beech tree.

‘Gandalf!’ a soft exclamation from Elladan. ‘Look.’

Gimli looked towards the Wizard and smiled. 

Gandalf spoke quietly, ‘Gimli, trust me. Do what I say and do not question. Softly now. Legolas is here, but he needs you to be tender and gentle. ’ Gimli lifted an eyebrow and looked thoughtfully at him. Perhaps he too had fallen from his horse. Gimli decided that he would humour the Wizard - always a good plan.

‘Elrohir will help you to sit up and I need you to shuffle over here, bring those sparks with you. Think about Legolas and your friendship. Think how you are going to explore those caves, think how you will see Aragorn crowned, how you will ride together into battle and guard each other’s backs.’

He saw Gimli’s question forming and held up a hand. ‘Do not doubt, just remember. Think. Your friendship.’

Gimli felt Elrohir gently lift him upright and although there was a surge of nausea, the little fireflies gathered round him solicitously and he felt soothed. He held out his hand again and they clustered around him, as if they would cloak him in their warmth. He remembered he was supposed to think of Legolas and to his surprise the fireflies fluttered delightedly and seemed to glow more brightly.

‘Come over here,’ said Gandalf and Gimli glanced down. 

He felt a surge of despair when he saw the cold, pale slumped figure that was his dear friend. Legolas lay very still. His eyes were closed and his lips were pale. A dim light seemed to pool around him but Gimli knew that was the moon perhaps, or Gandalf. The little fireflies fluttered around him and he thought he heard a song of deep woods and clear streams, and he felt tears prick his eyes again for it made him think of what he had lost in Legolas. He had been prepared to lose him in battle, been prepared for that… But this, this cold, lifeless body that was not dead... It was unbearable and he reached out to stroke the still face.

The little fireflies fluttered and shimmered and seemed to cluster around Gimli’s hand at first and then they fell onto the still body. Gimli cried out, for it seemed like they too were dying at first. But then he realised they fluttered over the Elf’s body and then gently rested on him. And though their light seemed to dim a little, it seemed there was already a thin skin of light shimmering over the still body. 

An unearthly light, pale green, shone on Legolas’ still face. It seemed like a glimmering mist made his features fade and become indistinct for moment. And then slowly, the fireflies’ tiny wisps of light seemed to soak into him. Gimli felt a gentle hand draw him back and he sat back on his heels, suddenly aware of the thundering in his own head. He touched a hand to his forehead and found a firefly clinging still to his square hands, as if reluctant to leave him. He raised his finger to it like he might a robin. It rested briefly on his finger and he was filled with delight, and then Gandalf prodded him with his finger impatiently and Gimli lowered the little firefly to Legolas’ breast.

He thought he heard something far off; music, indescribable and lovely... like the sea and wind and stars...like bluebells, that elusive scent that catches on a warm breeze as you pass but when he tried to catch it, to remember, there was nothing but the faint sense of loss. 

He looked up at Gandalf, standing silently, with his staff in his hand and a bright, unearthly light shone upwards from the fireflies so that Gandalf was bathed in a radiance, as if he beheld a great wonder. The fireflies were rising and swirling around him and the Wizard held his staff over Legolas. And with an expression of great tenderness he gently released a soft white light from the staff so that it glowed and seemed to bring the fireflies close; they flocked, swirled, clumped almost until they seemed one cloud of luminous light...like the lights in the sky in the cold North sometimes. They flickered and a wave of green ran through with white, like the sea, though he had never seen it. The little cloud seemed to form into a distinct shape for a moment and Gimli almost thought it became a being, a ghostly shape that hovered over Legolas. If he did not know better he would have said it tilted its head and looked straight at him before it dissolved. The light seemed to seep into the body of the Elf.

‘Ah,’ Gandalf moved and stumbled. Elladan reached out and caught him and suddenly Elrohir too was there and settling the old Man down. Elrohir reached into the Wizard’s robes and brought out that familiar flask, holding it to Gandalf’s lips, he drank. Gandalf nodded and pushed the Half Elf away. ‘Give some to Gimli and take a sip each for yourselves. Elladan, see if you can get a sip into Legolas.’ He pushed himself to his feet and gave a quiet whistle.

Instantly Shadowfax appeared, and behind him the familiar black horses of the sons of Elrond. Trotting warily behind, Gimli saw Arod. He smiled wryly at himself for feeling absurdly pleased to see that horse safe and sound. It immediately came to him and snuffled at his hair. He swatted his hand at it, but slowly so he did not startle it. And then it swung its head towards the Elf’s still body. It stepped forwards gently and trailed its muzzle over the Elf’s form. Strangely unconcerned, it pulled at the grass beside him. 

The Miruvor was passed to him and he drank. The taste took him straight back to the time on Caradhras. The sense of dislocation made him fall back but everyone else was too busy to notice and he handed back the flask to Elrohir, who quickly stoppered it and looked upwards anxiously, like a hunting hound scenting the air.

Gimli felt the wind stir in the treetops and it lifted his hair slightly. Elrohir looked around and then striding forwards, he leaned a hand on the Wizard’s shoulder.

‘Mithrandir, they come,’ he said urgently.

Gandalf was already hauling himself onto Shadowfax’s back and the sons of Elrond were busy with their own horses. Gimli rose unsteadily to his feet and looked back at where Legolas’s body was swathed now in one of the brother’s cloaks. He wobbled slowly over to his friend and knelt carefully beside him, reaching out to stroke back the tendrils of hair that had escaped those tight braids. His face was cut in several places and his skin was pale, bruises beneath his eyes, his lips still pale and bloodless... But... Gimli looked closer. He was fooling himself perhaps, but he thought there was a slight movement beneath the closed eyelids, perhaps a slight shiver... And then Elladan... or maybe Elrohir... was pushing him gently aside and lifting Gimli to his feet and leaning him against a tree for support.

‘Gimli, I think you will have to ride with Elladan,’ Gandalf was saying as he hitched his white robes up and sat astride Shadowfax. ‘Quickly now. Elladan - give him to me.’ It was Legolas that Gandalf wanted, Gimli realised. 

The other son of Elrond knelt and pushed his arm beneath Legolas’ still form but slowly. Tenderly he pulled the sable cloak from his own shoulders and wrapped it about Legolas’ cold, naked body. The Half-Elf had a graze down one cheek and his arms trembled as he tried to raise Legolas.

‘Give him to me, Elrohir, you fool. Look at yourself,’ the other brother scolded, taking Legolas into his own arms. Elladan, Gimli realised. ‘Get Baragûr for me. Go on.’ He gave his brother a shove. 

The strong one is Elladan, Gimli told himself, leaning gratefully against the tree. And the tired one is Elrohir. But he thought them both strained with each other and neither looked the other in the eye. So much has gone on here, Gimli thought sadly, and so much has been lost.

Elladan cradled Legolas in his arms. The sable cloak fell open and Gimli saw the terrible wound in Legolas’ pale chest. It did not bleed, though it should. His long, pale gold hair streamed back and brushed the ground as Elladan lifted him, pulling the cloak around his burden. He handed Legolas up to Gandalf, who grunted and pulled him, less gracefully, up and in front of him on Shadowfax. 

Hoofbeats made Gimli turn and he saw the other Half Elf, Elrohir, leading the two black horses towards him. Arod raised his head from the grass and gazed at them idly in the way that horses do sometimes and Gimli felt reassured by the horse’s lack of concern, sure that if there was danger nearby, the Rohan horse would be more skittish. Elrohir swung himself astride his own horse and then reached down to Gimli.

Gimli frowned, determined he would walk on his own two feet far more safely. ‘You’ll have to...’ he began his bluster but he gave a sudden oof as he found himself hauled up by one hand and shoved from behind by a pair of strong arms. Suddenly he was sitting behind one and looking down on the other, too dizzy and weak to glare as much as he ought. But he caught the eyes of the one on the ground, Elladan, and thought he looked angry and ashamed, though he could not think of anything of which Elladan had to be ashamed.

‘Come,’ Gandalf said urgently as Elladan swung himself astride his own black horse. ‘They will be here, and sooner than I hoped. Stay together and ride as fast as you dare.’ He cast a quick look around then and then rested his gaze upon Elladan. Elladan looked down to the ground, eyes searching, and he turned his horse in a tight circle but Gimli did not know why.

‘Do you not think we should take it, Mithrandir?’ Elladan asked, and to Gimli his voice sounded distant, strange.

Gandalf looked annoyed and urged Shadowfax to where the black horse circled nervously. ‘And what would you do with it, son of Elrond?’

‘Perhaps we can use it to fight the Nazgul,’ Elladan replied slowly, and he did not look up. Gimli frowned and tightened his grip on Elrohir. But Elrohir seemed entirely focused on the exchange between his brother and Gandalf. He tensed. His body was stiff and intent.

Then Gandalf reached out and touched Elladan lightly on the shoulder and he blinked and shook his head as if coming out of a miasma. 

Gandalf looked at him keenly. ‘It belongs to the Shadows. Let them take it. If you were to touch it, it would call to you and your blood. You would be corrupted.’ 

Gimli became very still... So...the Nazgul’s Ring of power had fallen there. He had not realised that it would not be destroyed. But of course, the fate of the Rings was tied up with the One Ring and that ... he quickly squashed all thought. They were too close. 

‘You would fade,’ Gandalf was still speaking, but quieter now and he held Elladan’s attention. ‘Even as Khamul did. You would become a Wraith like him. That is the fate of all bearers of the Rings of Shadow.’ He paused for a moment and then glanced up into the sky. Clouds had drifted across the stars and one by one they blinked and went out. ‘Come. We have run out of time. Ride fast and do not stop!’

Shadowfax surged forwards and Gimli felt his own mount leap after him. He clung to the rider in front of him and glanced behind quickly to see Arod cantering riderless yet close enough to bump against him every now and again. He did not see Elladan at first but then he emerged from the trees, galloping fast.

They were swift this time, horses flying over the earth, Gandalf holding his staff aloft. It shone a faint light, enough to see the road ahead as it led down towards the city. Behind him, he heard the sough of great leathery wings but there was no shriek. If they were hunting, this time the Nazgul hunted them in silence. He clung to the black tunic and shamelessly, wrapped his arms around Elrohir and was comforted when a hand caught hold of him tightly. 

‘Hold on!’ Elrohir called and the horse gave a leap and sailed over a fallen tree. The landing forced Gimli forwards and into his rider’s back. ‘Steady,’ Elrohir called back over his shoulder. 

Long black hair whipped into his face and he thought the texture different from Legolas. He felt a slow, deep sorrow in his chest so it felt like he might burst and he needed a forge and an anvil and the hot, hot fire so he could begin his Mazarbul-aglâb. As he clung to the Elf warrior before him, tears streamed down his face and he thought that if only it had been Legolas he clung to he would have buried his face in the Elf’s back.

*****

Elladan hung back as Elrohir and Gandalf urged their steeds forwards. Baragûr circled, waiting and restless but Elladan had to pause, to think for a moment. He still felt the heat from the Wizard’s touch on his shoulder, like a soft burning. It crept into him and warmed him so he shook himself. He rubbed his hand across his eyes and recalled with absolute clarity the dreadful events leading him here. He had almost killed his brother. He had stood astride him with one hand clutching Elrohir’s throat and the other poised with his silk-sharp sword, ready to plunge it into his brother’s heart. Only moments before, had he not told Elrohir that he was his brother and that whatever he had done, he could forgive? And he had believed that when he said it. But faced with the horror of what he had done, Elladan could not forgive. He thought he could, but he could not. 

The cold iron Ring of Angmar pressed against his chest and pulsed lightly. He could take it. And he could have Khamûl’s too - for it lay there within easy reach. He could have more power than he dreamed... He could...

Elladan breathed. The air was clean here, smelled of pine and moss. Free at last from the suffocating, clammy air, the fear that made his hair freeze on his scalp, he let the air fill his lungs and clear his head. He listened to the hoofbeats fading, aware that the Nazgul were drawing close. But he knew too that they feared Aicanáro and that Khamul had been careless, arrogant, complacent that he had Elrohir beguiled and beaten. 

He took the Ring of Angmar from the pocket of his tunic and looked at it. Old gold, worn thin with wear. He shuddered. It had been on Angmar’s hand for an Age. The red jewel glowed and the liquid depths were like an eye...

When Gandalf told Elrohir about the Ring enthralling Legolas should it be used to heal him, Elladan had recognised what it was that he carried. ‘A slave, with no will of his own, no thoughts but those of his master. And if it were you who used it to heal him, he would be thrall to you. And in time, you would join them and know no longer the life you know now, but become a Wraith.’ 

He had recognised its power. He knew he had been infected by the Nazgul, for had his brother not asked him as much? And when he had knelt with Gandalf, and cradled Legolas’ dying body in his arms, he had felt the tug of the Ring. Recognising the threat, he had spoken quietly to Gandalf and said he needed to stand watch with Elrohir instead. Gandalf had merely raised his piercing blue eyes from Legolas and looked at him shrewdly. Then he nodded as if he knew, as if he saw through the folds of fabric and saw the cold Ring burning at his breast...seeking the light that was Legolas’ ghost.

Elladan bowed his head in shame; he had let himself be used by the Enemy. He had been betrayed by his own anger at Elrohir whom he had claimed to love, told he would forgive...and now he was confused by his own disgust with himself and with his brother.

But his disgust was his own. And his anger his own. He would not be used by Sauron.

Elladan Elrondion was of the line of Luthien, who had beguiled Morgoth. And of Galadriel, who wielded Nenya. No Nazgul Ring of Power would own him and he looked once more on the old gold worn thin. The red jewel seemed to glow with a lustre he had not noticed before... And then Elladan flipped it in the air so it spun slowly, once, twice, thrice and landed with barely a thud near another Ring on the cold bare earth. 

Let the Shadows claim their own, he thought.

Elladan did not linger then, for the sough of great wings was close now, so he turned Baragûr towards the broken road where he could just see the light that streamed from Gandalf’s staff. A lightness returned to his spirit that he had not realised he had lost, and Baragûr seemed to feel it too, for he tossed his head and galloped after the others. Elladan leaned low over the horse’s neck and the black mane streamed in the wind. He felt his own Song resurface and he felt himself in harmony with Arda and all things- and he felt once more his own blue calm, like moonlight on pools of water, stilled and cleared. 

tbc

 

Translations  
felakgundu - Khuzdul for cave hewer. This idea for a craftsman like Gimli is that cave hewers, such as the Woodelves are inferior craftsmen to the miners of the dwarves. It implies the idea of sheer force against rock and stone, as opposed to the delicate way he describes revealing the beauty of Aglarond for example, with the noise. A common Dwarvish insult in other words, although once it was used affectionately and with reverence towards the Noldor.

Mazarbul-aglâb - (literally telling of the records) The telling of tales of the deceased, to record their lives and deeds.


	28. The Houses of Healing

Beta: Anarithilien. She made this so much better- I got very tangled up in the sequencing and just sorted it. Thank you as always for your absolute generosity.

Chapter 28 The Houses of Healing

Pippin leaned against the cold stone and struggled to open his eyes again; he kept nodding off. Aragorn was standing nearby and the comforting presence of the Ranger made him dream he was just settling down to sleep in camp and the Fellowship was all there... He thought of Boromir and felt a sudden warmth as if the dead warrior stood nearby watching over him. Aragorn stirred slightly and stood forwards, the moonlight was so clear and bright it cast a long shadow from Aragorn’s tall frame. 

Pippin looked up at the sky, crowded with stars, hard and bright. Night had fallen some hours ago and the city was in darkness except for the hundreds of tiny fires that sprung up on the plains below. He blinked and yawned widely. Aragorn turned and looked down at the Hobbit.

‘Why don’t you go and get some sleep, Pippin?’ 

‘Oh, I don’t want to leave you on your own, Strider,’ Pippin said a little sadly. ‘And I think I should be here when they get back. We ought to, we’re his friends...’ he trailed off. 

Aragorn did not reply but he heard the Man shift slightly and rest his hand on his sword as though restless for action. They lapsed back into silence.

Together they watched the stars move across the clear sky, glad that the dreadful, suffocating clouds had moved and the wind now came from the West. 

Pippin sighed and pulled himself onto the low wall to sit. He wondered if Legolas was alright...but he knew he was not. Elrohir had gone to make sure of that...to give the what was it called? the millwee cris? Pippin bit his lip and looked down at his foot. The moon was so bright it cast his shadow across the pale stone pavement and he wondered if Frodo and Sam were all right - but they were not either. He wiped his nose briefly with the back of his hand. 

‘I have been to Mirkwood before we embarked upon this Quest.’ 

Pippin glanced up at the quiet words to see Aragorn looking down at him kindly.

‘Of course you did!’ Pippin smiled encouragingly, ‘when you took Gollum to Mirkwood.’

‘Yes, it was to Mirkwood that I dragged Smeagol there at Gandalf’s behest. And never more glad was I than when Thranduil agreed to keep him!’ Aragorn said with heartfelt warmth. He knocked out his pipe on the stone wall with one hand and tugged his pouch from inside his cloak with the other, then he started to fill the bowl.

‘The idea of dragging that miserable beast anywhere else other than the Long Lake and throwing him in was more than I could bear!’ He laughed softly, tamping down the pipeweed. He struck his tinderbox and the flames flared and glowed on his face while he lit his pipe. ‘I still think it a better thing had I done that.’

He settled himself more deeply into his cloak, pulling it round himself against the frost-silvered air; he held his pipe between his teeth and drew on it hard. A long stream of grey smoke blew from between his lips and he gave a sigh. ‘It was not the first time I visited Mirkwood.You have not been there but you have heard Bilbo’s tales,’ he continued looking down at Pippin. ‘Well imagine that and worse. Darker than the night, impenetrable, full of spiders and their disgusting webs, and in the South, the trees are twisted and decayed and there is nought but rank foul water. Nothing grows but the pine trees and there is nothing to eat. It is a miserable and depressing place beset by Shadow,’ he said.

Pippin was surprised at the feeling in the Man’s words. ‘That is not what Legolas says,’ he objected, and looked away for a moment.

‘Well he wouldn’t,’ Aragorn replied more gently. ‘And the Elvenking’s halls are very different. They are caves but not at all like goblins caves or Moria. You would never think you were in a cave unless Thranduil wished you to think that. They are light and airy, and the Elves only retreat there in times of hardship or war. The rest of the time they live in talans like they do in Lorien.’ He leaned back against the stone wall and puffed on his pipe for a moment. Then he looked down and offered Pippin his pipeweed pouch but Pippin shook his head. He didn’t really feel like it right now, not with Merry lying within and their waiting for Legolas to return...

‘There are lots of windows and light-shafts cut into the caves, and they are lit with huge globes of different coloured glass; the pillars are like great trees, gemstones set in the ceilings like stars. It is a strange place, darker than Rivendell, merrier but somehow gloomier than Lothlorien; not timeless or peaceful but magic is very strong there nonetheless. But it is...different, older.’ He paused and looked upwards at the stars. ‘Somehow it is earthier. Otherworldy but not as Lórien, more like a folktale where to eat or drink is to stay forever.’

His voice had become distant, he puffed on his pipe and stared into memory. He slid a sideways glance at Pippin and stretched out his long legs and folded his arms. 

Pippin imagined the feast laid out for the Man who had stumbled into the Elvenking’s halls with his unwanted prisoner. He imagined the golden candlelight and pewter shining softly, silver plates gleaming, whole suckling pigs and roasted venison, dark purple grapes and succulent golden pastries, pale churned cream and great wheels of cheeses, dark chocolate desserts and tarts loaded with glazed fruits and every kind of sweet... jugs of deep red wine and candlelight glowing through amber spirits...His stomach rumbled and he shook himself slightly. Aragorn was looking at him in amusement.

‘I was just thinking,’ Pippin said defensively. 

Suddenly Aragorn stiffened and he uncrossed his arms, standing taller. Pippin, after long months in the wild with the Ranger, froze and his hand went instinctively to his short sword. 

‘Horses.’

Pippin pushed himself up, wide awake and listening. Sure enough, far away in the darkness, he could hear the clopping of hooves on stone, drawing steadily nearer ... nearer. 

They both leaned forwards over the stone wall and stared down the hidden, narrow track. In the distance, Pippin recognised the bright coat of Shadowfax first between the black pine trees, and then Gandalf’s white robes gleamed in the moonlight. He looked bulky though and Pippin realised he was carrying something...someone. His hand flew to his mouth and he felt his heart sink to his toes. Legolas. It was Legolas, sitting before Gandalf, and as they drew closer, he could see the Elf’s head rested against Gandalf’s chest. Long pale hair fluttered, but otherwise Legolas was absolutely still.

Pippin couldn’t help it and gave a cry and started running but Aragorn overtook him swiftly.

‘Go straight to the Houses of Healing,’ he shouted back to Pippin. ‘Take that street up there and you will be there when we arrive!’

Pippin wanted to go with Aragorn but he knew he would not be able to keep up with the horses or the Man so he did as he was bid and pelted along the narrow street with its high balconies and up the steep steps that took him into the square that was in front of the Houses of Healing. In the bright moonlight he could see the leaves of the lime trees rustling slightly and the moonlight gilded the roofs of the houses silver.

The House of Healing was silent and still in darkness apart from one light burning in a window on the first floor. They had bee swift for Shadowfax was already at the bottom of the steps of the House, and Aragorn was reaching up to Gandalf to take Legolas. Gandalf let him slip into the Man’s waiting arms. As Aragorn caught him, the sable cloak that had been huddled around Legolas slipped open and Pippin stared. Legolas was stripped to the waist and there were terrible gaping wounds in his sides and blood was run over the painted dragon on his skin. There was another dreadful wound in his chest that did not bleed, and on his pale skin there were dozens of smaller nicks. Pippin rubbed his eyes for they pricked with tears. He was dead. Ah, Legolas was dead. Like Boromir. And he had suffered, it was clear. 

He saw that Aragorn hesitantly touched his fingers to the wound that did not bleed before wrapping the cloak carefully around Legolas. He glanced up at Gandalf who watched him steadily. 

‘A morgul blade?’ he asked, and Pippin stared at him in horror. 

‘That’s what happened to Frodo!’ he cried, unable to stop.

‘Pippin?’ Gandalf peered at the Hobbit and sighed. ‘Yes. A morgul blade. It has done its work and I have done what I can...’ Shadowfax rubbed his head against Gandalf and left a streak of mud on the already stained white robes. Gandalf leaned heavily on his staff, his eyes were tired and there were dark rings around his eyes. ‘I am very weary and must rest before I can do anymore.’

Pippin looked beyond Gandalf and Shadowfax now to see two black horses led by the sons of Elrond arrive and halt at the steps on which he stood, and behind them another horse which Pippin recognised as the little horse from Rohan which Eomer had given to Legolas. One of the sons of Elrond leaned against the other. Gimli was still mounted upon one of the horses, his shoulders slumped and head down. One of the brothers steadied Gimli as he slowly slid his leg over the horse’s back, and then paused before sliding down. The Dwarf landed gently with the Half-Elf’s steadying arms about him and unusually Gimli did not glare and complain. He barely registered anyone or anything but just made his way quickly to where Aragorn stood holding Legolas, and lifted the edge of the cloak to peer into the Elf’s cold face. Pippin moved closer and hovered at his elbow, looking over Gimli’s shoulder first at Legolas and then at Gimli with equal measures of concern, for the Dwarf looked devastated.

Gimli anxiously pulled the cloak again up over Legolas, as Aragorn had done before him, and Pippin was sure he would have tucked him in if he could. Through his own shock and sorrow, Pippin heard Aragorn speaking to Gimli, catching fragments of their conversation as they both stared down at the Elf’s cold, still face.

‘...you caught up with him in time to help?’

‘No, we were already too late. The Nazgul were pursuing us and...’

Pippin felt useless as usual, superfluous now that the Big Folk were all here. There were some Men running from the House with a litter of some sort. Pippin thought it must be to take Legolas into the House but he would not know anyone in there, the Hobbit thought, so he took Legolas’ cold hand and held it gently, wishing and wishing that this had not happened... wishing he had said something...wishing he had told him that ...

Wait!...He felt something...

He opened his eyes wide and stared at Legolas’ still, cold face. But he was sure he had felt a twitch of long fingers against the palm of his hand. He frowned and whispered ‘Legolas?’ very quietly so the others would not think he was stupid or mad. ‘Legolas?’ he said more insistently.

And then...Yes! There it was. A slight pressure on his fingers...

He squeezed back slowly, slightly and turned excitedly to Gandalf. But the Wizard was looking straight at Pippin and somehow he thought Gandalf already knew. 

‘He’s alive?’ he whispered and Gandalf nodded, slowly, sadly.

‘Yes,’ said Gandalf holding Pippin’s anxious, excited gaze. ‘He is alive...in a way. As was Frodo...For he too was struck with a Morgul blade. But unlike Frodo, the Nazgul worked their dark sorcery on Legolas before they stabbed him.’ Gandalf seemed very old to Pippin, and his shoulders were stooped. ‘Hobbits are very different from Elves, Pippin. The Morgul blades are creations of the first Dark Lord, Morgoth. They were meant for Elves, not Hobbits.’ Gandalf leaned even more heavily on his staff and Pippin realised he looked wearier than he had ever seen the Wizard, even after they had fled the Balrog. It seemed all his piercing blue spark had faded into greyness. ‘These blades were created to cut the spirit from the body...so Morgoth could consume their spirits and corrupt their bodies.’ 

‘C..corrupt? What do you...?’ 

But Gandalf looked away and Pippin grappled with what he meant and then slowly, he remembered something that Gandalf had once said that upset Legolas terribly. Orcs were Elves once, taken by Morgoth, their spirits cut from their bodies which were then corrupted , twisted beyond recognition, into Orcs. Finally he understood... the Nazgul had cut Legolas’ spirit from his body...worse than death, worse than anything he could imagine. Had they meant to make him into an Orc then? He grasped the edge of Gandalf’s sleeve for a moment in horror and staggered slightly. 

‘Ah, my dear Took,’ sighed Gandalf and his hand rested gently on Pippin’s head. ‘I would have guarded you from so much if I could.’

Pippin looked down again at Legolas and Gimli came to stand on the other side of him.  
‘Can we...can you do anything?’ The Men had taken Legolas carefully from Aragorn and were lying him gently onto the litter.

‘I have tried.’ The Wizard passed his hand over his eyes in a gesture of hopelessness. But surely they would not be defeated now, Pippin thought earnestly. Not with Legolas here, back with them when they had thought all hope was lost?

He set his mouth in a determined line, sure there was warmth in the hand he clutched. And he whispered again, ‘Legolas...it’s Pippin. Hold on. We are coming.’ 

 

oo0000oo

 

All was quiet in the Houses of Healing. Everyone else was asleep and the sounds of their small group’s footsteps hurrying along the wide stone corridors seemed louder than they were. Even their muted voices, laced with anxiety seemed loud to Pippin. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of lotions and bitter herbs. Pippin was suddenly reminded of Rivendell when they first arrived exhausted and terrified; the Last Homely House had been filled with light and soft music and wonderful scents of flowers and herbs, distilled into medicines and lotions. He remembered Elrond telling him how scents and fragrances were important in healing...amongst Hobbits and Men it seemed it was quite the reverse- the nastier it smelled the more effective it was deemed.

The two Men who carried the litter however, seemed to do so very smoothly and they hurried past Eowyn’s door and Faramir’s and Merry’s. Pippin thought of all those who were hurt by this dreadful war. And now Legolas lay so still and cold and pale; he squeezed the Elf’s hand again as he jogged alongside the litter. Gimli seemed to have the same idea for he ran on the other side, watching Legolas’ still face all the time.

Glancing over to Gimli once more as they hurried along the stone passageways, he saw the bandage around the Dwarf’s head. Suddenly Pippin couldn’t bear it anymore. He wanted the Shire. He wanted to sit in the garden at Bag End with Frodo and Sam and Merry and smoke pipeweed and eat his fill and drink beer. He wished he had never heard of Gondor or the Ring or any of this! He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, willing away the tears that threatened when he felt a gentle warmth and it was Gimli who had reached over to him from the other side of the litter.

‘I know, Pippin,’ he said in a low, quiet voice as they half-jogged past the wide windows that opened out onto the gardens where they had sat only days before. ‘It seems too much. But think what we have in our Fellowship. If you had stayed in the Shire I would not know you. And I am very glad I do. And I would not have known Legolas had I stayed in my halls of stone. Even if we lose him, I am still glad I have known him.’

Pippin nodded, blinking hard. ‘I know. And you are right. Not even the gaffer in the Shire could tend his garden in what he calls peace but for folk like Legolas, whether he knows about them or not. I am glad I know about him, a little. And I am glad I know you too, Gimli.. I don’t know why I am talking like this.* I need a long smoke of Longbottom Leaf.’

‘Ah,’ Gimli drew a long breath as if he could smell the bitter fragrance even now and Pippin laughed. ‘That would certainly waken Legolas, Pippin. Maybe we should try it.’

‘In here,’ said Aragorn suddenly and threw open a wide door. Pippin followed the litter into the room and was suddenly bathed in the scent of athelas. Immediately he felt his spirits rise and he thought of the Shire and felt such peace. 

‘Bring him in here.’ Aragorn strode over to the long windows and threw them open. The moon-netted shadows of lime trees stretched over the frost-silvered garden outside and the scents of the garden and cold mountain air mingled with athelas, and Pippin thought that Aragorn had chosen this room especially for a Woodelf. 

‘Gently, lay him there.’ And suddenly there was a clamour of voices and noise.

‘Bring hot water....clean that wound.’

‘Scalpel, needles...that will need stitches and bring some of those linen strips.’

‘Should we get....’ 

‘Take the lord Gimli to get that wound seen to...’ 

And suddenly people swept in, around and Gimli was gone, taken off somewhere to be attended to in spite of his protests, and there were too many people in the room, and too much noise and bustle. Healers suddenly swarmed in with hot water and bandages and metal implements that tinkled and clashed. Pippin tried to make himself small and out of the way so he would not be sent out, and perched on the edge of the bed, still clutching Legolas’ hand. 

On the other side of the bed, Aragorn leaned over Legolas, reaching down carefully and lifted the cloak from the cold, pale body. He cast the cloak over a chair nearby. Pippin stared again at the horrible gaping wound that had not healed but did not bleed either. It was like it had been frozen, or the blood sucked dry. Behind Aragorn stood one of the sons of Elrond, who leaned forward and rested a hand gently on Aragorn’s shoulder. He said something to Aragorn and the Man looked up startled and replied but they both spoke so softly that even Pippin could not hear them. 

Pippin did not listen to them but instead, glanced across to where the other son of Elrond leaned against the door jamb, arms folded over his chest. His long black hair gleamed and his grey eyes were fixed upon Legolas but then he looked away as if confused and ashamed, and a young healer from the city pushed past him into the room and Pippin could no longer see him. 

The room was full of urgent voices and noise. Healers bustled about with basins and water and metal implements clinked, and the son of Elrond standing with Aragorn argued with the Man about something but Pippin did not listen. Amidst the noise and movement, Legolas was still. The moonlight gilded his hair silver and his skin was pale as marble. The lovely painted swirls and colours on his skin that Pippin had gawped at when he first saw Legolas seemed dead. All the warmth and life seemed to have leeched out of him. He was so still... Not dead though, not yet, and Pippin felt tears prick his eyes again, for he thought again of what Gandalf had said. It might be living but this was not life; not for Legolas, whose merry tales and tricks had kept Pippin’s spirits up during those cold long months in the wild, and whose songs had cheered up the Hobbits and made Gandalf so cross. 

With sudden tenderness, he stroked the lovely, cold face and wished Legolas would suddenly look up and wink and smile and say it was only a trick he was playing on Gimli. He wished they would all go and leave them in peace. The sons of Elrond were arguing more loudly now, with each other as well as with Aragorn.

‘Leave him,’ said one curtly, the one who had been standing in the doorway. ‘Aragorn knows what he is about.’

‘I do not question that, Elladan.’ The one who had been talking to Aragorn then must be Elrohir, thought Pippin wearily. He looked as if he could barely stand himself, Pippin thought and remembered that it had been Elrohir who had gone with Legolas and who had been supposed to deliver the milui-criss. He wondered what had gone wrong that Legolas had instead ended up with a terrible wound from a Morgul blade intended to cut his spirit from his body. 

‘But this is beyond him.’ Elrohir was still speaking. ‘You do not know...’ 

‘What do I not know?’ Elladan narrowed his eyes and took a step forwards. He caught Elrohir’s arm. ‘You have not yet told us what happened.’

Pippin looked up. No, they still did not know and he felt a sudden wave of anger on Legolas’ behalf, that Gandalf had been prepared to sacrifice him, that Aragorn had agreed and that Elrohir had gone along to make sure he died! He felt the wave build in his chest and had to bite his tongue hard.

‘There has been no time.’ Elrohir was protesting, but Pippin saw that he looked away guiltily. ‘Please, Elladan, do not let him do this! It is too soon.’

‘It is the only way,’ Aragorn argued but Pippin did not know what Aragorn thought was the only way for Elladan put his hand on his brother’s chest, restraining him and Elrohir began saying something loudly, aggressively that Pippin did not understand; it did not sound like any of the words Pippin had learned from Legolas over the months of the Quest - which were mostly rude ones anyway.

It seemed Pippin was not the only one overwhelmed for Gandalf turned to everyone else in the room and with sudden irritation he said, ‘Anyone who does not need to be here, go! If we do not awaken him soon he may be lost forever, Elrohir. It is a risk but I will be here. Elladan, take your brother away before he falls over with exhaustion.’

Pippin scuttled round to face the Wizard. ‘What about me?’ he demanded over Elrohir’s loud protests. ‘Legolas might know I’m here. He squeezed my hand.’

Gandalf harrumphed and tucked his less than white robe over his arm as if it got in the way. ‘It seems that you will defy my orders and do as you wish anyway, Master Took!’ Pippin stood his ground and stared defiantly up at the Wizard until he sighed and relented. ‘Don’t get in the way,’ he growled. 

Pippin turned back to Legolas, feeling a small sense of triumph while Gandalf ushered everyone from the room and shut the door firmly. So there was only Pippin left with Aragorn and Gandalf, and they both almost ignored Pippin completely. He could hear Elrohir outside, still angry and protesting with his brother.

Aragorn pulled the steaming bowls of athelas closer and leaned over Legolas with his hand on his brow...closed his eyes and at once seemed to sink inwards. Then he breathed once, deeply, and then again and then a third breath, bringing himself to the point where his and Legolas’ breaths seemed to merge, seemed to curl around each other and were the same... 

Aragorn sighed deeply and his head dropped down on his chest further and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly as if an enormous amount of concentration were needed. There was a slight shift in the air and Gandalf reached down to close his own hand over Aragorn’s and Pippin’s hand tingled. He felt a slight crackling of energy, like pins and needles in his fingertips and looked up startled, stared in sudden hope at Legolas’ face. A slight twitch? He thought he saw movement - the Elf’s eyes moved beneath his closed lids surely? Wasn’t there Music somewhere? In the distance, a chiming of bells, of a soaring chord that lifted his heart beyond anything, and he knew somehow it was Gandalf...

Aragorn stirred but he did not stop, as if he were unable to pull his hands away. He pressed down more and there was a quiet moan but Pippin did not know if it were from the Man, Elf or Wizard, or even from himself.

Slow warmth moved up Pippin’s arm and Legolas squeezed his hand. Pippin looked up at Gandalf in delight and laughed softly but the grip on the Hobbit’s hand grew crushing and Pippin squeaked. 

‘Aragorn? Aragorn, he won’t let go,’ Pippin cried with increasing anxiety for now the small bones had begun to rub against each other and hurt. ‘Legolas, let go, you’re hurting me!’ An answering whimper came from Legolas and Pippin tried to pull his hand away from him, but the Elf’s grip was iron.

Legolas cried out this time, more loudly and tossed his head from side to side. He thrashed and tried to pull away from Aragorn and there was a flurry of robes as Gandalf tried to get around the bed and managed to prise the Elf’s fingers off Pippin’s hand. The Hobbit stood back, wide-eyed, nursing his injured hand as Gandalf tried to hold onto Legolas. But the Elf’s eyes suddenly snapped open and he stared blindly, panicked. He cried out again but Pippin could not understand what he said, only one word...Rav-ay- ion, he thought, like a cry for help. Legolas shoved Gandalf away suddenly and clutched frantically at Aragorn’s hands that were pressed above the gaping wound in his chest, half-curling around himself as if in agony. But Aragorn was still locked in his trance and seemed unable to let go, instead pressing harder down on Legolas’ chest, squeezing his eyes shut more tightly as if he could black out all thought, all sound. 

Before Gandalf could recover and reach the Elf, Legolas opened his mouth; for a moment there was no sound, and then a heart-wrenching cry burst from him.

At that moment the door flung open and one of the sons of Elrond stood there. He stared for a moment and then within two strides he was with Legolas and pulling Aragorn’s hands away. ‘Daro, Aragorn! Elladan!’ he shouted over his shoulder, and his brother appeared in the doorway behind him, white-faced. ‘Elio nin!’ 

Aragorn resisted Elrohir slightly, like someone deeply asleep and then Legolas opened his eyes wider, unseeing as if something else was before him, even more terrifying. He began shouting, pleading in his own language. And Gandalf leaned over him, his face distressed, and muttered words, drew his hand back and forth over Legolas.

Pippin strained to catch the words but it was too fast and too fluid for him to understand. He moved to stand next to Gandalf instead. ‘What is it?’ he asked, nursing his hand, feeling helpless but unable to look away from Legolas’ terrified face. ‘What’s happening?’ But Gandalf seemed to be focused inwards and ignored Pippin. 

Elrohir shoved at Elladan, pushing him towards Aragorn shouting at Elladan, gesticulating wildly and shaking his head. Elladan hesitated for a moment looking from Elrohir to Aragorn and then he moved to stand behind the Man, put his own hands gently on Aragorn’s shoulders. ‘Estel,’ he murmured. ‘Estel, come back to me now.’

Aragorn seemed to start slightly and blinked but then he sank again into the strange trance again and this time, Elladan was more insistent. He forced Aragorn’s hands from Legolas’ body and pulled Aragorn back against his own chest. Gandalf moved closer too and lay his hand gently on Aragorn’s forehead. The Man blinked and stared at them for a moment, then he cringed with seeming terror, shrank back against Elladan and clutched at his tunic in dread.

‘The Eye!’ he whispered and covered his eyes with his hands. ‘It was terrible to behold. The Eye ripped my heart from...’ He gave an incoherent cry.

Pippin patted the Man’s hands. ‘It’s alright, Strider,’ he murmured, glancing up at Gandalf, but the Wizard’s piercing blue eyes were distant and vague, like he was dreaming. His lips moved slightly but Pippin did not hear any words. Bewildered, and a little frightened, Pippin cast a look back over his shoulder at what Elrohir was doing. 

For Elrohir stood leaning over Legolas, his long black hair gleamed in the candlelight. Pippin saw that his face was tender and concerned and he pressed his hands over the horrible wound and became very still. Legolas whimpered more loudly and tossed his head from side to side. Pippin turned back to Strider for a moment to soothe him again for he was still reeling from his trance. Elladan had pushed Strider into a chair and now had moved away to prepare more athelas and Pippin could hear him moving bowls and pouring the hot water in over the fragrant leaves. 

It was then that the screaming started.

Legolas opened his mouth, his eyes wild and staring and for a moment nothing happened. But then a terrible scream burst from him, and it did not stop. As soon as he ran out of breath, he took another breath and screamed again, and again. Pippin had never heard screaming like this; it was terrifying and devastating and shocking because it was Legolas and Pippin had never seen him even scared except for the Balrog.

And then everything happened so fast and Pippin could hardly keep track of things. 

The Warden of the House came rushing in followed by a number of other Healers. He eased Elrohir away and grasped Legolas’ head while others pushed past Aragorn and Gandalf, moving them away in an efficient and experienced manner. Two more pushed past Elrohir and in spite of his protests, grasped Legolas’ arms and legs and held him firmly. Legolas fought them like they were Orcs and screamed so Pippin thought his lungs would burst. But more Men arrived and struggled to hold him frantically and then suddenly there were leather straps being thrown around him and buckled to the wooden frame of the bed while he struggled and fought. 

Elrohir railed at the healers and swore at them but to no avail and the Warden ignored everyone, calmly opening bottles and pouring liquids into a glass flask, swirling them together into a mixture. Elladan’s face was grim, and he said something to Elrohir that Pippin could not understand but it silenced Elrohir to an angry, astounded glare. 

Pippin could do nothing. In the end he covered his face and looked away while three heavy, big Men lay over Legolas to hold him down even with leather straps holding him to the bed and the Warden forced the drug into his friend. Legolas choked and gagged and thrashed and screamed but gradually, slowly, his cries grew weaker and Pippin was helpless to do anything more than weep. He crept back to hold onto Legolas’ hand as the Elf crashed into a drugged stupor.

There was peace of a sort once Legolas slept, a horrible, desperate peace where Gimli stomped into the room in rage and berated Aragorn, and Elrohir argued long and angrily with the healers. Pippin stayed still and quietly wept on the bed, clutching Legolas’ hand and staring at him. 

Gandalf leaned on his staff wearily and took his hand back from where he had laid it on Legolas’ forehead. ‘I have looked into his mind and seen the Eye. It has turned from Mordor back to Minas Tirith. Legolas was successful.’

Pippin looked at him suddenly furious. Was that all Gandalf could think about? That they had been successful? Didn’t he care? But in the blue eyes there was such sorrow and loss that the words died in Pippin’s throat and he could not speak. 

 

o000o

 

‘I am Legolas Thranduillion’ he whispered, and once it had meant something, but now, it was the only thing he had left. All had been burned from him. Liquid fire spewed along the ground, ran in molten lava in lines around him, flared up and cast hot red light on his face, ran together so he was surrounded on all sides. Walls of fire enclosed him and he burned.

'Ash nag thrakatuluk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.' 

Scorching heat, words burned into him, blood boiled in his veins and flesh melted. 

No! He shouted in resistance. No! But he no longer remembered what he denied. The Eye was open and he burned and screamed and screamed as his nerves, sinews twisted, stretched, melted.…I see you...And he could never escape.. it was always there, always fixed upon him...It ripped all thoughts from him, and lightning and flame poured into him… The screaming seemed to come from far away but he knew it was he who was screaming… he was dimly aware that his throat hurt but everything was fire…scorching fire…burning him. His eyes felt they were melting but he tasted salt. It is tears, one part of his mind thought. He knew that was right because he could not last long…there was something... precious... It was looking for it... and he knew something once but had buried it deep now and there was only fire. …The Eye, the Voice, ripped his entrails open and dragged out his heart and threw it to one side...It mocked him.There were earth-brown eyes and a deep song of the earth but he no longer knew what it was... He screamed over the laughter that wrenched his bones. 

'The journey doesn't end here.' Once there had been sharp blue eyes, wide and soft in remembrance but now there was only the One, the Eye that poured its malice into him,   
struck again and again, the spear of ice through his heart impaled him, pierced him. The threads of black reached into his body... but his body was burned? And the ear-splitting shrieks got inside his head and were terrifying. The black threads, like ink in water spread into his veins, into his lungs, into his flesh and dug out his heart, his soul so he stood outside his body looking back as he crumpled to the ground... and he looked down at himself in horror...and saw the forest floor through his hands...could not understand. Was this death? Was he dead? But he burned and the Eye drilled into him and his blood boiled and his sinews stretched and flesh melted...

'I am Legolas Thranduillion.’ he whispered. He no longer believed it, but it was all he had left. He could not escape. He was here forever. And the liquid fire, molten lines ran around him, caging him again, and it started all over again, although it had never really stopped.

Only sometimes... sometimes, there was a crimson warmth and something had come to him... someone... he knew them... ‘Stay,’ it had said. ‘Trust me’.. and he had not wanted to, had been frightened and it hurt but oh, he had wanted to trust ...’Stay.’ It had said again and there was such pleading, such yearning... that he had... and now it reached out to him again and gave all of itself..all...but it was crimson and he had baulked, for red hurt, it hurt. But this was like something else, like soft light, a crimson warmth and there was a song that wrapped itself about him and kept out those ear-splitting shrieks.

But then the Eye opened onto him again and wearily, he lifted his head and defiantly whispered, ‘I am Legolas Thranduillion,’ as if it meant something...and the fire surrounded him and he was trapped again in the agony of burning...

 

00oooo0000ooooo0

 

Elrohir stood by the window and leaned his head against the cool glass, gazing as the same thin crack of dawn appeared and the late stars seemed to shine all the more brightly before they too dimmed and faded. He stood and watched the sun’s rays creep over the sleeping land and turn the river silver. The great mud flats were polished to a sheen and the gulls, flying upriver, cried and mewed, silver catching on the edges of their wings.

He heard a stirring behind him but he did not turn. It would not be Legolas, drugged into such a stupor that he could neither heal nor scream. That dreadful moment when he first began to awaken and roused the whole House with the horror of his torment reminded Elrohir all too clearly of his mother’s ‘recovery.’ Why did everything about Legolas keep returning him to that horror? That was hours ago now and the Houses of Healing had slipped back into warm slumber, but he guessed he was not the only one who was unquiet in these earliest hours of morning.

There was a clink and the sound of water poured into a glass. Then the scrape of chair pushed back and the creak of someone sitting on the bed. 

Elrohir said nothing but he listened to Aragorn arrange things as he wished and then go to the door and ask someone outside for hot water. Elrohir wished he would not. They could not just keep drugging Legolas and avoiding this. So he turned and stood at the bedside, looking down.

Legolas lay unmoving except for his occasionally twitching fingers. Long hair splayed out over the pillows and his face looked almost peaceful... except at times, Elrohir could see his eyes move beneath his lids and knew that the Elf saw images in his dreams which were distressing and terrifying.

‘Do not drug him again,’ Elrohir said quietly. ‘He cannot control the dreams if he is drugged. He will be stuck forever in that place.’

Aragorn paused. ‘You think we should leave him if he wakens again screaming?’ he asked. ‘You cannot think he will rest or have peace!’ He pinched the bridge of his nose.

‘The other residents of this house may not have peace,’ Elrohir said levelly, ‘but I know this; Legolas is alone in that place if we drug him again.’ He looked at Aragorn, held his gaze unflinching. ‘Believe me, Estel. He is in torment if we leave him there... He cannot get out on his own and he will not heal. You glimpsed it yourself when you tried to rouse him.’ He looked again at Legolas and lowered his voice, ashamed. ‘I have already wronged him. You cannot know how I have wronged him. I must give him my life if need be.’

Aragorn stared at Elrohir as if he had never truly seen him before. ‘What have you done?’

‘It is not for you to know, Estel. Trust me. I will atone, but it is not you who is owed this debt.’

‘Then who?’

‘Legolas ... if he recovers enough to understand. And if he does not, I must account to Elladan for my sins. For you know he may recover in body and never recover his wits.’ He looked down at the sleeping Elf and gestured with his hand. ‘I have seen this once...she... she never recovered.’

Aragorn knew enough not to ask further and Elrohir waved his hand dismissively, as if she didn’t matter. Oh, but she did. She did. ‘This great hurt to the soul...it cannot be healed even with great love. And there may be only one way to ease Legolas’ soul and heart, for he wishes to sail now he has heard the gulls.’

‘And how will you atone if he sails?’ Aragorn demanded. 

And Elrohir looked him squarely in the eye and said, ‘I will sail with him.’

If he had shocked Aragorn before, he could not have guessed the devastation in his face now, and Elrohir realised that Aragorn had never thought he might leave him. The Man looked so tired, he thought. His skin looked tinged with grey from fatigue, and he rubbed his hands over his face the way he had always done, even as a child. 

Elrohir felt an immense tenderness well up, and gently he shoved Aragorn to the door and said, ‘Go, you must rest now. You have given everything you can but you are still the General now of this place. The enemy is still without and will come. If we have succeeded he will be on the road soon enough and I do not think the city can withstand another siege. Go. Rest. Sleep.’ He gently smoothed his hand over Aragorn’s head as he had so long ago when he was a child. ‘I will call you if I need to.’

 

oo00000oo

 

Elrohir stayed with Legolas, and he knelt silently beside Legolas as if in prayer, holding his hand, insistently flooding him with warmth, with energy, with desperate pleading to come back. 

And quietly, barely noticeable, the archer’s long fingers twitched and the eyelids fluttered. 

The last warmth of the evening sun stroked over the pale stone. Elrohir felt a change steal over the room for the light was tinged with the pale green of young leaves and the lime trees outside whispered and leaned a little closer.

‘Legolas?’ he whispered, hardly able to hope.

He waited, barely breathing, staring at the Elf. But there was no more movement, no fluttering of the eyes...although his breathing settled, deepened and became more regular. The small whimpers stopped and a natural flush warmed his cheek. Elrohir thought he looked child-like, vulnerable. His heart clenched and he covered his eyes in shame for he had behaved with utter dishonour at every step. Across Legolas’ throat were the marks where Elrohir had almost strangled him in jealous rage, and he placed his fingers lightly on the bruises, stroked them down the warm skin, gentling his own fiery energy and light. He closed his eyes and felt a fluttering like butterflies...

Elrohir looked down to see the long sea-green eyes open and fixed upon him. He felt the world tilt and a strange sense of dislocation. 

‘Legolas!’ he gasped. 

Legolas blinked slowly and his lips moved weakly. Elrohir stared disbelieving, his heart gave a great leap and pounded in his chest. He felt tears prick his eyes and words burst from him.

‘Legolas...beloved!’ He took the hand between his own and bowed his head and when his long black hair fell around him, he was relieved that his face was hidden so the Elf he loved could not see his shame.

He felt the lightest of touches on his hair, fingers sifting through the long black silk, but even now he could not look up and meet Legolas’ eyes. His plan to avoid Legolas’ death had nearly brought a much worse fate upon him; how could he bear himself! A groan worked its way out of his throat.

‘I..I am...’ It was a hoarse whisper and no wonder for the screaming must have made his throat raw, but Legolas spoke nonetheless. He heard Legolas swallow drily, throat working clumsily and Elrohir reached out quickly to pour water for him. He cradled Legolas’ head and held the glass to his lips, watching him drink a little sip and then wince for even that hurt. Legolas raised his hands feebly and put them around Elrohir’s to hold the glass steady but his hands shook and it was Elrohir who steadied him.

‘I...am...Legolas... Thranduillion,’ Legolas gazed unseeing into the glass he held in trembling hands. And Elrohir felt a flood of relief.

‘Yes. You are Legolas Thranduillion.’ He asserted and he steadied the glass before the water spilt out onto the linen sheets, twisted and wrinkled from the earlier struggles .

When he had drunk a little more, Legolas let his head drop back down again on the pillow and stared up at Elrohir. Elrohir wanted to look away but he held fast, he owed that at least. The long green eyes were flecked with gold and grey and blue and seemed to change colour like the sea. Long winter grass hair pooled over his shoulder and chest, pierced with dozens of tiny cuts, and that one dreadful wound. Elrohir wanted to reach out and trail his fingers down the lean muscle and follow the swirls and abstracts of the painted dragon, but it seemed that even the dragon had lost its vibrancy and lustre. It seemed coiled in on itself. Before he thought it had almost watched him guardedly and aware. It suddenly seemed a mere decoration... Ah, but he was so unworthy now to even look upon it.

Elrohir bowed his head even lower and held tightly onto Legolas’ hand, pouring his love, emptying himself into Legolas, drenching the feeble and tender green light with his own hot fire that would fight for him, fight death, fight the Shadow that sought to consume him.

‘Legolas.’ He just wanted to speak his name, wanted to hear his own name on Legolas’ lips. ‘Legolas. I know you cannot forgive me but I beg you let me atone for all my sins against you.’

Legolas’ eyes were slits of green and he tilted his head slightly, almost enough to be a familiar gesture.

‘I am...Legolas... Thranduillion,’ he whispered as though it was all he had. And Elrohir felt a growing worry build in his chest. Legolas did not look away or show disgust or any other emotion...and that was it. Legolas was slowly awakening, of that Elrohir was certain, but he looked around the room stupidly, as though he had no memory of anything but his name.

tbc

extract from ROTK.Merry says this pretty much at the end of the chapter The Houses of Healing.

\-----------------------------------------


	29. Fellowship

Note: Per canon, we have arrived at the day Aragorn should leave Minas Tirith. There is nothing written that says what time Aragorn left but it is my guess it would have been early and that he rides in the vanguard with the Sons of Elrond, Legolas and Gimli. Of course, this would be a bit hard for Legolas so I have played with the timeline a little and made it so they leave the next day. Things will adjust on the way- don’t worry.

Disclaimer: Not mine. No money.

Beta: The inimitable Anarithiien- works so hard to make this good!

 

Chapter 29: Fellowship

Gently loosening his hand from the strong fingers that curled around his, Elrohir rose to his feet, and reached over to pull the door open and called softly. He knew Elladan would be nearby, felt his strong, calm presence, knew he would be working with the injured, and for a moment he felt selfish; he should be doing as his brother and tending the wounded. But he glanced over again at Legolas and felt anew the soft delight that the Woodelf was alive. They could spare him; there were others who could dress wounds, bring comfort, he told himself. 

‘Is all well, brother?’ Elladan asked from the doorway and Elrohir turned to him and smiled. Elladan looked like he had been sleeping after all. His hair was a little mussed and he blinked sleepily.

‘He has awoken...not truly, but it begins. He spoke his own name.’ Elrohir could not help the softness in his voice, nor did he miss his brother’s troubled gaze.

But Elladan only nodded silently and came to stand beside him. He hesitated for a moment and then reached out and lifted Legolas’ eyelid. The startling green iris was opaque with dreaming and the pupil wide, like a cat’s in the dark, shrank in the light. Elladan said nothing and bent to feel his pulse at the throat. His hand hovered for a moment over a purple bruise, and then felt its way to the vein. 

‘His pulse is slow and steady,’ he said and he reached down to press his hand lightly against Legolas’ wound. ‘Nothing like the wild beating of yesterday when we brought him in.’ Elladan became utterly still, his long hair fell forward over his shoulder, a sheet of black silk shining like mercury, his grey eyes narrowing to half closed, and Elrohir wondered if he too looked like that when he reached into the souls of those he healed. 

After a while, Elladan opened his eyes. ‘He is closed to me I fear,’ he murmured. ‘And I do not know where he roams. It may yet be the Havens for him whatever happens...now that he has heard the gulls.’ He straightened and sighed. ‘The price was high indeed, and yet may still be higher. But at least he will have time enough to recover to ride for Lórien should we fall. That is if you can find anyone who will go with him.’

‘There are healers here who will look for sanctuary in Imladris if Gondor should fall,’ Elrohir heard himself say and it seemed to come from far away, talking so steadily about his and Elladan’s own deaths, for he knew that should his brother fall, he would also. ‘I have seen to it.’ 

There was so little time left suddenly. So little time with Legolas. So little time with Elladan. And he had so much he needed to say for Elladan’s quietly uttered question still hung between them... 'Did you ... did you touch her? That is all I need to know. It is all I can bear.' And though he had answered truthfully, it was not the whole truth.

‘It is well that you have.’ Elladan yawned and smoothed his hands over his gleaming hair. ‘Aragorn will lead the army from the city tomorrow. He has already ordered troops to Osgiliath to protect the stone masons and workers who repair the defences destroyed by Sauron’s armies.’

‘So soon?’ Elrohir asked, concerned. He glanced down at Legolas’ still, pale face. ‘I had not thought Aragorn would be ready yet.’

‘The whole city is ready.’ Elladan stepped away from him and looked out of the window to where the morning sun rose above the mountains in the East, still shadowed and dark. ‘Gandalf urges us on. He talks as if we should have already left and I fear there is much left to do in ordering the defence of the city. It is less than one day’s march, and but a few hours ride to Osgiliath. And from there but a short way to Minas Morgul if we go through the Morgul Pass — six days march if we go to the Black Gate...Gandalf counsels the latter. He says we should head straight for the Morannon and confront Sauron there.’ He looked back down at Legolas and then said, more gently, ‘You are willing to leave him then?’

‘I would delay if I could, but was there ever any question that I would not go with you?’ Elrohir stared up at his brother. ‘Surely you do not think me such a coward that I should skulk here while you and Aragorn ride to your death or Victory? No! I have said that I have much to atone.’ He looked down again at Legolas and smoothed a hand over the long blond hair. ‘And he is safe here. I will ride with you.’

Elladan was silent for a moment and outside a robin sang. 

‘It is not only Legolas to whom I owe much,’ Elrohir said quietly. 

Elladan paused for a moment and then Elrohir heard him step towards him. He did not look up but his brother’s voice came from above him. ‘You will not atone anything simply by dying. It will not absolve you...and we have yet to speak of it in full.’

Elrohir became very still. He closed his eyes and in his heart, he knew Elladan had read him right; it was the way of escape. The Gift of Men. To die and sleep until the Ending of the World. To forget. To leave it all behind. His thumb stroked over Legolas’ still hand lightly, for once Legolas remembered, he would not want Elrohir...and once Elladan knew everything, he would reject him too. So perhaps he could atone with his own death... perhaps if he could save a few worthier folk, perhaps he could wash himself clean. He bowed his head, and then lightly he felt Elladan stroke his head and he felt a warmth and love soak into him; cool, blue peace, like moonlight on a still pool and petals floated. He felt tears on his cheeks and bowed his head so Elladan could not see and he knew his brother wanted to forgive him...but he did not know everything, and Elrohir could not forgive himself.

Quietly Elladan moved his hand from his brother’s head and moved towards the door. But he paused and looked back. ‘Stay with him for as long as you can, brother. Make him remember you when we have gone.’

Elrohir stared as his brother left, feeling the weight of the moment; he was leaving to ride to battle, a battle they did not hope to win, for that was not why they were going... And here lay his heart. 

After a while, he reached out and smoothed the pale, lovely face, traced the generous lips that were still now and wished they would smile for him. He watched as the eyelids fluttered and a seam of green appeared. Legolas watched him from half-closed eyes, his cheek flushed with sleep. Elrohir thought he heard an eagle cry, far above, wheeling above the pristine snow on cold mountains far away...

He did not press Legolas although he was clearly awakening, allowing him to feel his way slowly back to awareness and then consciousness. Elrohir slowed his movements, smiled gently, spoke only rarely and quietly, like the Woodelf was a wild animal that might flee at any moment. And Legolas gazed at him warily at first, and then feeling the warmth and tenderness that Elrohir flooded him with, he smiled tentatively. Elrohir rested in the low chair next to the bed, gazing in rapture at all he thought he had lost. 

Eventually Legolas spoke again. ‘My lord, you called me.*’ His voice sounded raw and husky and Elrohir remembered how he had screamed and screamed up on the cold mountainside, and how he had screamed again only the night before when Aragorn had tried to awaken him... too soon, ah. Too soon. He hoped that now it was time.

Elrohir smiled and slowly reached for his hand. When Legolas did not pull away, he gently touched the long fingers, the strong hands but he did not speak, letting Legolas make his own way through the maze of memory and half-dreaming. He poured clear, cool water laced with honey from a pitcher that stood on a chest nearby, and watched as Legolas held the cup to his lips. His hands trembled a little, but he could it steady this time. 

That was enough for Legolas and, handing back the cup, he rested for a while, letting his eyes drift, but not falling asleep. He gazed at the sunlight as it slid slowly, inexorably across the limestone floor, threaded by the shadows of branches and twigs of the lime trees outside.

After a time, Elrohir rose and opened the window to let in the scents of Spring, the warmth of the morning, and the robin sang. Legolas smiled a slow, beautiful smile. His strange green eyes softened and his flaxen hair spilled over the pillows. Elrohir thought he had never seen anything that touched him more deeply. He bit his lip and looked away. How unworthy he was to be here.

‘Rávëyon.’ The croaked word startled him out of his misery and he turned to stare in astonishment. Legolas remembered him. He bowed his head in shame for it was far more than he deserved.

Legolas frowned when he did not speak. ‘Are you not Rávëyon?’ He looked down, inward and Elrohir could see the struggle for memory. ‘Then I do not know you...I am...I am Legolas Thranduillion. Of the Forest...’

‘Yes. Of the Great Forest of the North,’ Elrohir sat beside him. ‘Your father is Thranduil, the Elvenking.’ 

Legolas looked suddenly vulnerable and met his eyes briefly before he cast his gaze down. He toyed with the sheet and picked at a thread, plucking at it until it came loose. ‘What happened?’ he asked quietly, as if afraid to hear his own voice and his trembling hand hovered over his throat as if afraid to touch it.

‘You were injured,’ Elrohir said gently. ‘We thought we had lost you. But you are here, safe with your friends.’ Legolas held his gaze hard, and did not speak but he clenched his jaw. Elrohir wanted to drop his gaze at what he thought was disbelief, but he forced himself still. ‘I am your friend,’ he said softly, holding the hard green stare and it was Legolas who looked away, confused.

Legolas fiddled with the loose thread and then looked down at his hands seeing them for the first time, slowly he lifted his arm and stared at the tiny cuts and nicks in his skin. His lips parted slightly in confusion and he turned his hands over to see the palms smooth and unblemished. 

‘I thought I had burned,’ he murmured huskily. His fingers brushed over his own arms, shoulders, felt the tiny wounds that had been made to hurt and not kill. His hand came to rest above his heart, where the morgul blade had plunged. ‘I thought I had died...’ His eyes went wide and distant and Elrohir reached out and touched him lightly, calling him back, letting the warmth and love bathe him, drench him, pour into his wounded body and soul. 

Legolas let his head fall back so his long hair streamed over the pillows and swept down to the floor. His eyes closed and lips parted, panting slightly. ‘It...hurts.’

‘Hush.’ Elrohir reached out and rested his hand against the Elf’s beating heart, flooding him with warmth. Alive. Restored and returned to him against all hope. ‘I will guard you. You are safe.’ 

He stroked the long wintergrass hair and felt its cool heaviness in his hands, and remembered that night in Aragorn’s tent when he had fallen back, lost in desire and sensation. And then he looked away in shame. How could he have felt lust at the idea of Legolas in agony and pain? How could he have wanted that possession, domination, subjugation? He did not really understand it himself but he knew it was not Legolas he had wanted, but some idea of Legolas subdued and in his power. 

It was not what he felt now. Now he wanted to protect Legolas, to take away the fear. So intense was his feeling now that his chest hurt.

His hand gently, lovingly strayed over the long hair, let it trail and slip through his fingers, wondering at it. And then he glanced down and saw that Legolas looked up at him and his gaze was rapt. 

‘You were with me. In that place.’ Legolas stared intensely at Elrohir so he felt he was stripped bare with every part of himself open to Legolas’ scrutiny; he flinched, for surely Legolas would remember that Elrohir had scorned him. Soon he would see the bruises on his neck that were there before the Nazgul and recall that brutal assault. 

‘I was. I tried...’ He hung his head. ‘I failed.’ Elrohir let his hair hide him. His hand stilled, fell back to the counterpane and he looked down as strong fingers caught his. How could he leave Legolas here, alone and vulnerable, the only Elf in Gondor? His brother’s words came back to him. How could he abandon Legolas, even if it was to die for the greater good? He would be entrusting Legolas into the care of some unknown healer and hoping they would find a way to the Golden Wood where Galadriel would take Legolas to the Havens with her, trusting that when they fled Middle Earth, they would be allowed into Valinor. And if not? If not...He could not think beyond that sobering thought.

But Legolas held his gaze steadily, searching... and then he half closed his eyes as if listening and a slow smile curved over his generous mouth, and Elrohir heard the cry of the wild eagles, high, high above, circling in the frost-blue sky above pristine snow. He felt something in him shift, some lump, some knot of misery uncurl and stretch into stillness, and he knew he was hearing his Song in the distance.

 

00ooo000ooooo

 

Later a messenger came from the Lord Elessar who had requested Rávëyon’s presence. Legolas did not know who Elessar was but he thought something was afoot. He could sense the city’s excitement, hear distant trumpets and drums. But he could not concentrate, and he let his attention slide from the anxious messenger to his Rávëyon’s beloved face. He wondered why the Elf Lord looked so unsettled.

Rávëyon bid the man remain with Legolas, in spite of the discomfort of both parties. He told Legolas that he would send someone more familiar as soon as he could. Legolas felt as uncomfortable as the Man, who stood nervously near the door and regarded him with a mixture of awe and fear. 

Legolas fixed him with an elven stare and soon he felt the Man wilt and twitch. 

‘It is quite in order for you to leave me alone,’ Legolas said softly. ‘My lord Rávëyon will send another soon and I am not going to leap out of the window.’ 

‘If you say so, my lord,’ said the Man with huge relief and he scuttled quickly out of the door, almost slamming it in his anxiety to be gone.

Legolas smiled and leaned back onto the pillows. For the first time, however briefly, he was alone and could think, work out what had happened to him. He drew a deep breath but it hurt his ribs and he thought he must have broken or bruised some. But he could not simply lie here and know nothing of what went on beyond these stone walls, not with the trumpets sounding and the drums beating a march. He knew he was not at home, for Thranduil would never approve of such vulgar, Noldorin display, he thought. And as he smiled, he felt an unbearable loneliness. 

Clenching his fists, he pushed himself to sit up, breathing steadily. His ribs hurt but not badly and he knew there was something beneath that bandage that he did not want to look at just yet. It felt cold, alien. As though something were within him now that had not been there before, that something of himself leaked from that wound and it was not blood. He could not think about it just now, he did not feel strong enough. So he forced himself to stand, one hand clutching at the headboard and the other clenched into a fist against the pain... but it was not as bad as he expected. Just bruising. His muscles ached and his ribs hurt...but there were no bones broken and no searing agony when he moved. He touched his head. Nothing. Nothing to explain why he could not remember.

He stood for a moment, adjusting to being on his own two feet. He felt a little wobbly, like he had been drugged, or... or...somewhere else. And it felt strangely uncomfortable. He glanced nervously out the window, feeling his fingertips buzz and prickle. He closed his eyes and tried to remember but his mind simply refused to go back. He was met with a wall of silver and white light, like staring at a wide, wide river with sunlight turning it mercurial.

He stepped a little shakily towards the window, wanting to see beyond these stone walls. Then he rested his fingertips against the cool glass for a moment and caught his own reflection in the glass. He looked nothing like himself, he saw with puzzled surprise. His hair looked different, unbound as it was, unfamiliar. He remembered he had been traveling in the wild for a long time. His eyes looked sunken and his cheeks hollow, as if he had been ill. He lifted his hand and looked again at the tiny cuts and nicks that were healing fast but he still had no memory of how he got them. Even now. He lightly touched his fingertips to the scars on his skin, on his face, bruises on his neck, chest, and then lingered on the white linen bandage that wrapped around him, testing the edges, lifting it where he could to slide an experimental finger across the scarred flesh. But he stopped short of looking, as though he knew, deep down what he would find and his mind shied away from it.

He could not remember being injured. But that was not unusual; that had happened before. He remembered. There was a time...yes... there was a time once... in the thrill of battle, the heat in the loins, the sheer lust, that he had been badly wounded, and only afterwards his brother, Laersul, had looked at him aghast at the severity of his wounds, and then bundled him off to a healer, scolding him so his ears burned...

Legolas paused, and felt his way back along that thought...his brother was not here. And he, Legolas, was not where he thought he should be...There were no trees, only the ancient lime trees in the garden. No other Elves here apart from...Rávëyon...who was not an Elf. He was a Half-Elf. Peredhel...That must mean...was he in Imladris? No. This was a city of stone.

He leaned his cheek for a moment against the cool white wall, and listened to the song of the city, the stones soaked in blood and war, how they trembled. The One they had waited for had returned. A memory teased him, something elusive… a smoky, bitter smell beneath the fragrance of athelas, and he was strangely comforted by the thought.

Slowly, slowly, he turned his own song to heal, measured the inward knitting of muscle. He smoothed along the nerve endings and gentled the pain and listened to the harmony of his body’s healing, let it soothe and knit...heal. He felt the tug of new skin stretch and thicken. The silver-blue light, like a wall of glass or sunlight on a river, was still there and when he reached for it, he could not touch it, could not penetrate those precious lost memories, but for now it was enough to feel his body stretch and heal, the bones and sinew knit and smooth back into place, to feel his muscles slide and stretch. 

He leaned his back against the wall more heavily; he could not get past that wall like silver glass. In his chest was a slow ache that spread and made him feel cold. He hugged his arms about himself and shivered, feeling the scars on his arms and ribs, like the ones on his face and chest, deeper on his arms, long and thin, like he had been sliced with many blades. He could not remember. But he felt a cold, cold spear of pain lance through him and suddenly he needed Rávëyon. He wanted to be safe for he thought he heard a high-pitched shriek that set his nerves jangling and the ice cold spear....

He felt the world tilt suddenly, and throwing one arm out to steady himself he knocked over a pitcher of water and it flowed over the limestone flags and pooled, silver water...rippling, light catching it silver blue. He stared as the breeze teased at the open window and he caught a scent, a song that wound about his heart, like a skein of silk on the breeze, wind-blown, blue and silver like...like... something he had known once and could no longer remember.

He tilted his head and closed his eyes, listening. A song... It called him home...but it spoke not of the trees and great woods, or of clear streams running through forest glades... No, this one caught on the wings of white birds that flew upriver and called and wheeled in the bright sunlight.

‘Legolas! You’re up already! We knew you wouldn't be in that bed for long,’ A cheerful voice cried.

Legolas blinked slowly and looked up to see...someone he knew but his mind stumbled for the name and he did not know how he knew a Hobbit that was not Bilbo. Bilbo. He savoured the name. Bilbo Baggins. He was the Hobbit who had burgled Smaug. Smaug was the dragon...Ah. Of course. He remembered the gloriously golden dragon, massive armoured limbs curled on his bed of gold and jewels, smoke curling from his nostrils. Power, violence and destruction coiled in that slumbering dragon. No mere beast, his cunning and wisdom was beyond all ken, immortal or otherwise. Legolas had been terrified. As he should be.** He glanced down at his naked shoulder.

‘Elrohir asked me to come,’ the Hobbit was saying and Legolas glanced up again dazedly. How could he have forgotten the Hobbit was there? 

Afternoon sunlight was warm on his skin. The window had been thrown open and there was the scent of the earth warming and a small brown bird chirped happily and hopped amongst the branches of the ancient lime trees that were bursting with pale green buds. Legolas thought how shady the garden would be in the Summer with the big leaves unfurled and the huge silvery branches.

There was a clinking and chinking sound from the doorway and the Hobbit was staggering in, carrying an enormous tray laden with food, but Legolas could not bring himself to lift his hands to help. Instead he looked down again at the painted dragon that curled protectively about his torso, hugged him with its proof of the courage of the Elves of the Wood. 

‘Gimli will be here soon. He wanted to come here straight away but Aragorn needed him to look at the Gates. They are all out there,’ the Hobbit chatted on cheerfully, although Legolas had no idea of whom or what he spoke. ‘Eomer and Imrahil are there and Faramir is out of bed and at least able to give some advice. But he won’t be going either.’ Legolas thought that the Hobbit might have been sitting with him before, chattering about all sorts of things and places and people as he did now, but he could not remember for sure; he let it wash over him, grateful not to be on his own, uneasy without Rávëyon but a nervous fluttering seized him whenever he thought of the Elf-lord. 

The Hobbit’s quick eyes darted over the tray. ‘I think this is...teatime!’ he announced pleased. ‘But you haven’t even had breakfast yet so perhaps this can be breakfast, second breakfast, elevenses and lunch! Gimli said to bring it. He said you’d be hungry. Aragorn didn’t think you would be, but Merry and I decided Gimli was right. Gimli isn’t happy about the Gates, says they have not been repaired as well as they should be and that if he had but a dozen Dwarves they would make gates fit for the returned King… or something like that anyway. I wasn’t really listening. But he is right. They do need to be repaired before...well, before They attack again. Because we will all be gone soon and...’ The Hobbit stopped speaking suddenly and stole a glance at Legolas as if he should not have said so much.

But Legolas did not know who or what the Hobbit meant and he did not ask either, just let the words flow around and over while the Hobbit busied himself with setting a table with plates and bowls. Legolas let his mind drift...but not too far... not to sleep. He did not want to sleep. He feared to...to sleep was to go back to the Fire and he felt the burn edge along his nerves, felt the darkness, like ink bleeding into his veins, and the towering shadows that had pursued him down the mountainside... the long claws that reached out and snagged on his flesh... No, not flesh, they tore into his spirit-light, snagged on it and ripped little pieces off so they floated away and the darkness consumed them slowly, bit by little bit...

The Hobbit babbled on oblivious, spooning out something into the bowls, lifting lids of things and clattering away and slowly, Legolas brought his breathing back, focused on the ordinary. He listened gratefully to the Hobbit’s chatter about someone called Gimli and someone called Aragorn, and someone called Merry. He wondered at first if that was the name of the Hobbit’s pony and then was glad he had not asked, for Merry was clearly his beloved. 

‘Legolas? Are you all right?’ the Hobbit had paused in his arrangement of things and was gazing up at Legolas with wide eyes full of concern.

‘Yes. I think so....um...’

‘Pippin,’ said the Hobbit helpfully as he led him back to sit on the bed, and Legolas nodded. Pippin. Familiar but not known...yet, he reminded himself. The old Man in the white had said he would recover slowly....The old Man in white was Gandalf, he remembered, though he had forgotten again a moment later. And a memory...

....Olórin stood there, holding out his arms and calling him....Olórin would help him, would stop them...but above Olórin a dark shape suddenly dived and swooped and a terrible winged shape, shadow and ...and it was like the Balrog but ice not fire...Nazgul! They had come and Olórin turned and fought them and then he could not see anymore...the darkness and ice had come for him...wanting to run, he pulled on the threads that bound him, tugged and tried to flee but there was another in danger...and though he tried to lure the darkness and ice away by running, the shadows stood over the fallen elvellon, angren-pau, bloodbrother, friend and he could not leave his friend so he too was dragged back...

He felt a small hand on his arm and Pippin was looking up at him with concern. ‘Shall I get Gimli?’

Gimli was the Dwarf, thought Legolas and sighed. No, Gimli would fuss and fuss and try to make Legolas sleep. He remembered now that the Dwarf had already been in twice during the night and ordered everyone about. Rávëyon had been there then, and stopped them from giving him potions to make him sleep. He shook his head. Rávëyon. He thought of the light gleaming on the Elf-lord’s black-silk hair and remembered Rávëyon had called Legolas ‘beloved’. But those grey eyes were too deep, and for Legolas to look into them was to be lost, and he was frightened of the tremor of nervous excitement and fear he felt when Rávëyon was close… and the hurt...

‘Very well.’ Pippin interrupted, declaring in a voice that signaled that this was momentous and helpful. Legolas lifted his eyes and tried to focus on the Hobbit. ‘I have decided that since I am the only member of the Fellowship who is both hale and hearty, and actually here, that my job is to tell you everything that has happened so you get your memory back.’ 

Pippin settled himself in a small chair that seemed to have been brought in especially for him, because Legolas remembered that the Wizard had harrumphed and scowled and tried to sit in it but almost got stuck,... Wizard... Olórin. Gandalf...Yes. He remembered. Gandalf was the meddling Wizard who brought nothing but trouble...It was his father who said this. Thranduil. He felt a wrench of sorrow and anxiety at the thought of his father, but still he did not know why. Every time he thought of home, he was troubled. But he seemed unable to hold onto any thoughts for very long, certainly not long enough to work anything out.

Legolas’ stomach rumbled and he realised he was hungry. Pippin gave him a wide, cheerful smile and Legolas could not help but smile back. He liked the sense of mischief he got from Pippin and he seemed fond enough of Legolas to spend time with him. He was part of a Fellowship...and Legolas wondered if it was a Fellowship of Hobbits or if Legolas was also part of it. He found himself hoping it was the latter.

‘You remember I have already told you about how old Bilbo came to have the Ring, and no one else even suspected anything, even though I did.’ Legolas smiled at Pippin and nodded although he had no recollection of any of this whatsoever. Pippin was ladling some sort of stewed meat and vegetables into a bowl for Legolas and suddenly it smelled delicious. He had not been interested before but he saw now there was hot new bread, and yellow cheese and his body suddenly realised it was famished. 

‘...well, the Ring had been found by that little goblin creature, Smeagol and he dropped it and it was picked up by Bilbo. Ah! see, you remember!’ Pippin said cheerfully. ‘And you remember the Ring came to Bilbo?’ 

Legolas had a strange feeling as he listened. The name Smeagol made his stomach lurch and he paused, but the silver-mercury wall slammed down. And he was hungry. So he ate. He was so hungry, like he had been emptied of everything and needed to be replenished and Pippin helped him to a second serving and then ladled the stew into a second bowl for himself.

‘Well, Bilbo decided to go off on more adventures and he left everything this time to Frodo, his nephew if you remember. And that included the Ring.’ 

Pippin stopped and peered at Legolas for a moment, as if he should be doing something other than stuffing food in his mouth. Legolas suddenly smiled, for Pippin looked, for an incredulous moment, just like Thranduil if Legolas forgot his manners — that imperious, quizzical stare that needed no word and every one of his grown sons would drop their gaze and shuffle. He glanced up at Pippin, his eyes brighter than they had been.

‘...Well it was after Bilbo had gone that I realised this was no ordinary magic ring that Frodo had,’ Pippin was saying proudly. 

Legolas looked at the Hobbit with wonder and amazement that Pippin should be such as master of lore and learning. ‘How did you know it was...?’ he asked with his mouth full and reaching for the loaf of lovely fresh bread, still warm. ‘How did you know it was... It?’ he finished one mouthful and tore off another chunk and smeared it over the butter, not even bothering with a knife. 

Pippin beamed at him approvingly. ‘You see Legolas, I have always thought you were more like a Hobbit than one of those Rivendell Elves. And now you show not only an excellent Hobbit-like understanding of how I found this out, but a very Hobbit-like appetite too. Have some more stew.’ Legolas nodded and held out his bowl to be filled for the third time. Pippin was of course eating a second helping and Legolas was grateful that the Hobbit had agreed to eat with him, just to keep him company.

Pippin chattered on while Legolas ate and Legolas felt more and more curious about Pippin who was vaguely and pleasantly familiar, and to whom —according to Pippin himself— the West owed so much and yet recognised also little.

‘So after you realised it was the One Ring, and organised Frodo’s escape from the Shire and warned Gandalf about Saruman,’ Legolas asked, ignoring the tiny niggle at the back of his mind as he said this, ‘did any of the other Hobbits give you the respect you deserved, or did they still not understand what a great scholar they had amongst them?’

‘Oh,’ Pippin waved away the query with great nobility. ‘I do not expect them to understand. Education in the Shire outside the Great Smials is...well, let is just say it leaves a lot to be desired and ...well, frankly, Legolas, I have found it best to allow others to take credit. I am happy to serve.’ 

Legolas swallowed the food meekly and nodded again. He was impressed that Pippin had worked out that Saruman was evil; even Thranduil had never really quite been sure about Saruman and he knew everything. But apparently not as much as Pippin. And that bothered him for some reason; surely Pippin must be a great hero in The Shire? 

‘Well, I gathered Frodo, Sam and Merry together in Bag End. Of course I had guessed that Gandalf had been delayed by Saruman, even though I counseled him not to go! Sometimes even the Wise do not listen to me.’ Pippin shook his head sadly and Legolas wondered that the Wise had so easily dismissed the Hobbit when he had already been proved right on so many weighty matters. He felt a surge of fondness for Pippin and resolved to confront the Wizard about this as soon as he felt strong enough. 

‘And that meant it was my duty to get Frodo out of there as safely as possible. So I sent old Fatty Bolger to the new house to pretend Frodo was moving there, and then we waited until day and then set off...’ The Hobbit shuddered then. ‘It was the Nazgul that made it real,’ he said.

Legolas froze. A cold chill spread through him and his limbs felt heavy and cold...his hand drifted to the bandaged wound in his chest and it throbbed slowly as if in a memory. He looked down at the pile of food and felt suddenly sick for a memory had begun to crawl its way out of his head.

‘When those Black Riders pursued us across the Shire, Legolas, I can tell you,’ Pippin continued in a low voice completely unaware and sunk in the horror of his own memories, ‘I had never known fear until then. The very sound of their terrible voices almost froze me and they were relentless. They would not stop. They...’ 

The spoon clattered from Legolas’ fingers. He stared unseeing at the floor as a cold hand reached for him, reached into his chest and suddenly he could not breathe. His heart pounded and he clutched the bandage where it burned. His breath came in short fast gasps and he was dimly aware that there was shouting and a sudden flurry and a crimson warmth suffused him, warmed and calmed him and a voice spoke in his head, through the terror and he recognised it and turned towards it as he had before...it called him back as he fled, so he paused and wondered and was reassured that the terror had not followed him. Instead there was a song of eagles crying in high places above pristine snow, high crags, remote, untouched...

 

oo0000oo

Elrohir slowly withdrew from Legolas, satisfied that he had calmed and had returned to them and now trod the paths of elven dreams. He blinked slowly, aware of the fragrance of athelas permeating the room and mingling with the scents of the garden and spring air. Slowly he looked up and saw it was Aragorn steeping athelas once more in boiling water that Pippin poured for him. The Hobbit glanced up and caught his eyes guiltily and the fragrance stole about the room and soothed them. Aragorn sighed and rubbed his hands over his eyes. He was frowning and there were lines at the corners of his eyes.

He carefully removed the barely-marked bandage from Legolas’s chest and handed it to Pippin, who seemed to be the self-appointed orderly. ‘I do not understand. This should have killed him but it has not bled and is nearly healed.’ Aragorn peered at the wound across Legolas’ chest, prodding it carefully with his finger and shook his head. ‘The muscles are not knit yet, but there is no lasting damage.’

‘Not to his body, for it is not a physical weapon for the Elves.’ Another voice murmured nearby, and Elrohir looked up to see that Gandalf leaned on his staff in the doorway and that Gimli stood anxiously beside him. ‘It is a weapon older than Sauron,’ Gandalf continued, sounding distant and far away. 

‘Gandalf, you said the Morgul blade cut his spirit from his body,’ Pippin said in a hushed voice filled with horror. ‘You said that Orcs were Elves once...Is that what...?’ but he did not finish the thought.

The Wizard stirred himself. ‘Ah. I thought the last of these had been destroyed on Weathertop. I do not think the Nazgul were trying to turn Legolas into an Orc if that is what you think, Pippin. That takes a long time and even Sauron has not managed to do that. No, I think they were doing something else entirely.’

Elrohir took a breath, looking down at Legolas whose face was flushed, lips parted softly. No, he thought to himself, the Nazgul had not attempted Morgoth’s twisting of Elves. Not that. But something as dark, something easier. He closed his eyes in disgust at himself, that he could have been tempted by the Nazgul, that he could have been tempted by Legolas as his thrall.

He looked away to find himself watched carefully by blue eyes that were bright and cold, that held him, stripped him to the bone. Elrohir felt something inside himself shrivel in fear that he would now be exposed. But instead the Wizard asked, ‘Will you be riding with Aragorn in the vanguard when we leave tomorrow?’

Elrohir was caught off guard by the question and did not answer immediately. Aragorn glanced up suddenly and Elrohir realised that this had not even crossed Aragorn’s mind. The Man opened his mouth to speak but changed his mind and looked away instead.

‘I have told Elladan that I ride with you.’ Elrohir said quietly and he saw the grateful relief in Aragorn’s face and smiled. ‘I told you, I have much to atone,’ he added quietly. 

‘You will be glad to hear that you still have my axe,’ Gimli crossed the room and stood beside Legolas, looking down. ‘But there is no chance that you will have his bow. If he cannot even stay awake for a few hours or sit with Pippin, I cannot think that he will be ready to ride a horse.’ 

Elrohir moved quietly to the window and looked out across the garden.

Pippin fidgeted a little and said quietly, ‘It wasn’t Legolas’ fault. It was mine. I started talking about the Black Riders and I didn’t think...’

‘Of course not!’ declared Aragorn, looking at Gimli and ignoring Pippin’s interruption. ‘I did not even think it... He has done enough. And if he reacted like this to the mere mention of the Nazgul what would he be like should we encounter them, as we surely will?’

‘Yes... well I am not sure that Legolas will see it that way,’ said Gandalf thoughtfully. ‘And it will probably be best if no one tells him anything about marching upon Mordor.’ He glared at Pippin who opened his mouth to argue and then closed it again, thinking better of it. ‘I think you had best come with me, Peregrine Took, and stay away from Legolas in case, just for a change, you speak without thinking first!’

‘But how... how do we say goodbye?’ Pippin asked sadly, and Elrohir too hesitated. The Hobbit’s face was downcast and he held Legolas’ hand, as he had when they first brought him back here. The Elf lay, unmoving, green eyes opaque with dreams that were soft now, not the horror that he had faced alone on the mountain. 

Gandalf looked down suddenly and his face softened. ‘How indeed.’

‘I will stay with him, Gandalf,’ Gimli grasped Pippin by the shoulder and squeezed slightly. ‘At least until it is time to go. I cannot leave without saying something, but I will not tell him it is goodbye.’

There was a snort from Aragorn and Gimli turned to him and said acidly, ‘There is something you would say, Aragorn?’

Aragorn spread his hands as if to ward off the Dwarf’s anger. ‘You cannot hide anything from Legolas, Gimli. You should say your farewells now and leave. None of us wishes to do this, but you most of all he will suspect. And he will want to ride with us; he will be a risk to himself and all of us. He cannot wield bow or blade. Even an Elf will not recover from this as quickly as he would need.’ 

Gimli drew himself up and looked outraged. ‘Do you mean to say that I cannot work a little subterfuge on the Elf?’ he whispered angrily, but he sounded too easily annoyed to Elrohir and he thought Aragorn was right. ‘And he would have six days on the march to recover. We have seen him recover from worse in less time.’

‘That is true, Aragorn,’ Elrohir added. He had seen worse injuries amongst Elves and they recovered. And the Elves of Mirkwood — of the Wood, he corrected himself — seemed so much hardier than others he had known. ‘This is not a wound of the body. That part will heal quickly.’

Aragorn turned away from both his brother and the Dwarf in irritation. ‘Do not give in to him, Gimli. If he guesses, you will not resist him. I know you!’

Gimli made a disgusted noise, equally irritated and said, ‘Go now. All of you before you wake him up. I will stay here and I will bring his memory back to him before I leave.’

Aragorn’s eyes gleamed. ‘I will wager you will not return his memory but you will tell him everything we wish to keep from him.’

‘And you and I, Elrohir, have not yet spoken,’ Gandalf said meaningfully, interrupting Gimli’s outraged cries. Elrohir did not flinch although he wanted to. This was inevitable and right. He had to tell Gandalf, and then Elladan. But he wanted first to bid farewell to Legolas. He was not the only one and as Aragorn rose to his feet, still bickering with Gimli, the Man’s hand lingered on Legolas’ for a moment and he looked down at his comrade and friend. 

Pippin hung back as the others left. ‘It isn’t fair,’ he whispered, as he had the night Legolas had told them of Gandalf’s plan. ‘He’s come all this way, left his family behind and even when Saruman showed us that awful vision thing, he didn’t leave. And he could have, Gimli, couldn’t he?’ Pippin gave a sniff and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. ‘And he could have turned back after Gandalf told him about the gulls. He thought he was going to be killed then...And perhaps Galadriel was right, because it looks like we are all going to die anyway. But it isn’t fair...I wish...I wish...’ But he never said what he wished for because a sob finally struggled to the surface and he hurried out of the room leaving only Gimli and Elrohir.

‘Ah. It’s all too much for all of us,’ muttered Gimli compassionately. Elrohir said nothing. He wished the Dwarf would go too but Gimli had planted himself firmly in the small chair and watched him astutely. Elrohir knew he could not stay with Legolas now as he wished; he had been summoned by Gandalf, and he had yet to speak with Elladan. And he needed to, before they rode out. There would be no time once they left the city.

Elrohir stroked his hand over the Elf’s sleeping face, his green eyes soft and dream-filled, wheat-pale hair spilled over the white linen, lips parted softly. Elrohir wanted to press his mouth against the warm lips but he did not think the Dwarf would approve so instead he rested his hands over the dreadful wound and sank his awareness down, down, into the Elf’s sleeping soul and he listened to his own Song wind about the notes of green leaves, of clear forest streams running over mossy, granite rocks, tumbling into shady pools where ferns grew and sunlight dappled...Here lay the heart of Elrohir Rávëyon. And when he left he did not look back.

tbc

‘My lord, you called me. I come’ Faramir says this to Aragorn when he is awakened.

** This refers to the initiation rite of the Cult of the Dragon amongst the Woodelves and whose signature is the Dragon. Yes- I will get round to it one day.

\-----------------------------------------

Chapter End Notes:

Elrohir, by Mienepies. Art cannot be viewed here but on www.esteliel under this title.

 

￼


	30. Old Friends

Disclaimer: NOt mine, just mucking about, no money etc.

Beta: The incomparable Anarithilien.

Recap: Legolas has been brought back down the mountain by Elrohir and Gandalf, Elladan and Gimli and slowly awakens. He has recognised Elrohir as Rávëyon,and the sons of Elrond prepare for war. 

 

 

Chapter 30: Old friends 

Legolas knew he had drifted again, hazily, only aware of the scents of the evening floated on the air and he wondered if it was a blackbird singing somewhere, outside in the twilight...He thought of the Hobbit... Pippin? Yes, that was his name. Pippin. He had been listening to him tell of the Ring, how he had worked out it was the One Ring...and something had happened ...Something had plunged him once again into that place...where there was only terrible burning, and torture, and screaming. His throat hurt again.

But he was no longer there. The fiery burning that boiled his blood and melted his bones had retreated, only retreated because he felt it was still there, just beneath his skin, just beneath his consciousness, waiting for him to sleep so it could come again. He felt his eyes open and glaze in reverie, slowly awakening...and that place had receded, drifted away

He found himself listening to the Song of the Mountain…a single deep note, like a heavy bronze bell … the stroke of a drop of water across a mirror of water, undisturbed for a thousand years like the thrum of harp strings … the creak of stone in the heart of the Mountain…

He frowned. It reminded him of something...and he thought someone had once described the mountains to him in such terms for he was sure he had not thought this on his own...Slowly, he let his eyes focus on the Dwarf, with his bronze hair pulled into a thick plait and bronze beard smooth and oiled and silky, sitting carefully in the small chair drawn up next to the bed. 

Legolas nodded to himself; that was why he could hear the song of the mountain amplified- it was responding to the presence of the Dwarf as trees responded to an Elf of the woods. He thought the Dwarf must be the lord of this stone fortress, for the stones sang to him and everyone bowed and did his bidding -even Rávëyon, he thought sleepily. 

Am I in Erebor? he wondered briefly, for it was not Imladris, that he knew. Earth brown eyes held his and he found himself reaching out to clever square hands that he had seen smooth metal like silk. A word reached him through the silver wall, Elvellon. Elvellon. And he felt safe.

Legolas knew he should get up and bow, and though he knew he was stronger than he had been before, he still felt tired. 

‘My lord,’ he greeted the Dwarf as formally as he could from lying in bed.

The Dwarf pursed his lips and gave Legolas a shrewd look. ‘I see you have not lost your sense of humour.’ 

Legolas smiled. He did not know how he knew, but in his heart, he was certain that the Dwarf had saved his life many times over, and Legolas had saved his.

The Dwarf shifted and slowly took out a long thin pipe which he put between his lips and watched Legolas quizzically. Legolas did not so much as blink; he knew what was coming, he had grown used to it. 

He dropped his gaze for a moment. Yes, he had grown used to it. The Hobbits and Men had wreathed themselves in smoke, as did the Dwarf. He had a sudden flash of memory... sitting around a campfire, he standing guard and the others of the Fellowship smoking their pipes and bickering over ... over... 

A long stream of grey smoke curled around him.

‘Long Bottom Leaf!’ he burst out. The Dwarf smiled shrewdly. 

‘You know, Legolas, you always liked a smoke after supper,’ he said, eyes gleaming. 

Legolas smiled tentatively, and reached out his hand. ‘Elvellon?’

Gimli smiled back, showing neat white teeth. ‘Elvellon. Or Gimli son of Glóin, son of Gróin. Of Erebor. At your service.’ He stood and bowed. Then sat quietly, puffing on his pipe and Legolas found it soothing and found that he did not mind the smoke that prickled his nose. 

Later, Gimli helped him stand again and moved a chair to the window, positioning it carefully to face the North. But the window was closed and Legolas just did not have the energy to throw it open as he wished.

‘That way is home,‘ Gimli told him, and helped him sink into the chair. The Dwarf pulled the low chair in which he had been sitting forwards, and settled next to Legolas companionably. 

Legolas stared up at the cloudy sky. ‘Where are we?’ He found the question he had struggled with all day.

‘We are in Minas Tirith. With Aragorn,’ the Dwarf said patiently. ‘We came on the Paths of the Dead.’ He paused and glanced at Legolas. Then added with an air of helpfulness, ‘You were very afraid.’

‘I was?’ Legolas frowned, thinking that sounded very unlikely, but Gimli merely regarded him thoughtfully. 

‘But you fought well in spite of it,’ Gimli took the pipe from between his teeth and looked at it before putting it back in and fixing Legolas with his bright eyes. ‘You killed forty-one orcs,’ he said calmly. 

Legolas narrowed his eyes; that certainly did not sound right. ‘And how many did you kill?’ he asked with suspicion.

‘Fifty-five.’ Gimli said, looking modest. ‘But since you cannot remember anything, I will tell you what happened.’ He settled back in his chair and linked his fingers over his flat stomach. ‘Now...it started with the Council of Elrond...’ And then, like Pippin, he told Legolas of his great deeds, his single-handedly rescuing of the Fellowship from wargs, his great determination on Caradhras while Legolas, it seemed, merely played in the snow with the Hobbits. Gimli spoke endlessly about Lothlorien until even Legolas was bored and he watched the Dwarf stroke his hand over something he had tucked away in his tunic. When Gimli told him of Galadriel’s gift, he smiled. 

And then at Meduseld*, it seemed Gimli had single-handedly defeated Grima Wormtongue and his henchmen. Although, as Gimli conceded generously, it was Legolas who had actually killed him. And it was Gimli, it seemed, who had played the biggest part in Saruman’s defeat. It seemed too, that Legolas owed him a huge debt for helping him through the Paths of the Dead, for the Elf had been terrified, Gimli repeated, and it was only Gimli’s steady presence and sense of direction that got him through. The Dwarf finished by describing how he, Gimli, had faced and defeated an enraged Oliphant single-handedly.

Legolas tilted his head and regarded Gimli quizzically. ‘You are a very great hero indeed,’ he said drily. ‘I wonder that Sauron has not fled, knowing you AND Pippin are here so close to his borders.’

‘Pippin?’

‘Yes. Did Pippin not solve the riddle of Aragorn’s heritage, and identify the One Ring in the first place? Truly I am blessed to be in such elevated company, me a mere Woodelf who, it seems, jumps at his own shadow!’

Gimli regarded him carefully, and then suddenly he threw his head back and laughed loudly. ‘Ah! I told them I would get your memory back! Maybe it is not quite complete, my friend, but it is good to have you back. I have missed you!’ he said and his eyes twitched a little. He rubbed them self-consciously. ‘Thought we’d lost you for a minute and I have a bone to pick with you about you going off without me...but not now. No,’ he said more softly. ‘Not right now.’

Legolas regarded him with a mixture of bewilderment and skepticism and then the Dwarf glanced down and rummaged at the neck of his tunic, drawing forth something on a chain. He lifted it and held it for a moment in the palm of his square hands, gently as if it were something immeasurably precious. ‘Here. I have kept this for you, as you had asked.’ 

In his hand a fine silver chain was looped and something glittered, a delicately wrought leaf. Legolas leaned forwards, fixed on the leaf. It was his, he knew this. Sudden tears pricked his eyes for it meant Home and Home did not mean the same anymore. It had been worn by his father for all Legolas’ memory until the day he left the Woods for Imladris when Thranduil had impulsively taken it from his own neck and put it around Legolas’. Thalos and Laersul, his tall, strong brothers, had looked at each other in concern and hugged Legolas close then, in some foresight perhaps? There was something he did not wish to remember...yellow smoke, a heavy trophy lifted high...

The silver-blue wall slammed down again and he shook his head.

‘It is yours,’ Gimli said gently. ‘And now I return it.’ He sat for a moment looking at Legolas as if he wanted to remember him. ‘You left without me but I forgive you your stupidity. You are an Elf after all. And when all this is over, you must do the same for me if I do not return and take my axe to my Father. Tell him we were friends.’ 

Legolas stared, feeling the moment was huge and immense but he struggled still for memory, for understanding, to piece together the bits he knew and the snatches of the past. Earth-brown eyes met his in sorrow and Legolas felt a sudden sharpening in his own awareness.

‘When it is all over?’ he repeated, narrowing his eyes. ‘If I do not return?’ Gimli looked horrified for a moment and Legolas reached out and clasped his shoulder firmly. ‘Where are you going that I am not?’

‘I simply remind you of a promise made to the other should he fall.’ Gimli looked away guiltily and Legolas pulled him round to face him. ‘We promised each other that should one of us fall the other would return to the folk of the Wood or the Mountain and tell them,’ Gimli protested hopelessly. ‘If I fall, you have to return my axe; it will be buried deep in the skull of an Orc! I promised you I would return this and I simply remind you of your promise to me.’ He closed his mouth but Legolas fixed him with his long green eyes and Gimli squirmed guiltily.

‘Hmm. So I have returned from something, somewhere dangerous and you return this to me.’ He narrowed his eyes at Gimli who swallowed nervously and shut his mouth tightly. ‘And now you say I must do the same...Yet I have not been told I am going anywhere.’ He circled Gimli slowly. ‘Gimli, am I going anywhere?’

‘No. You are staying here.’ Gimli said definitely and then winced, knowing the next question.

‘So! You are going and I am staying?’

Gimli would not meet his gaze then. ‘Legolas, you have been injured. You need to rest, get your memory back.’ He fiddled nervously with the haft of his axe and twiddled with the ends of his beard.

Ah! Legolas knew the Dwarf did that when he was trying, always unsuccessfully, to conceal something. He paused in front of Gimli and stared down at him. Gimli looked off somewhere in the middle distance and stuck the end of his beard into his mouth and when a jackdaw chuckled outside the window, Gimli almost jumped.

‘Why am I in this room, on the North side?’ he asked suddenly. ‘There are other rooms I could have that open onto the garden? Why are you keeping me in this quiet place, away from the sights and sounds of the city? Of the river?’ he asked with sudden recollection- yes! The sunlight turning the river a wide, wide expanse of silver and... and...birds flying...He rose and took a step toward the window, throwing it open. He leaned out as far as he could. ‘What do you seek to hide from me?’

‘No! Legolas! Come back here!’ Gimli pulled at his sleeve but he was healing and felt strong! He wrenched his arm from the Dwarf’s grasp and leaned out as far as he could and breathed. Spring was in the air...but that was not it. He knew Gimli loved him and there was something from which he wished to protect him. Legolas leaned out precariously and then suddenly impulsive, he swung his legs over the windowsill and was about to drop into the garden when he realised something. 

The city was astir.

He caught the edges of an immense wave of sound, horses, men, wagons creaking on wooden wheels, the sough of canvas of a thousand tents spread on the fields below, the clang of steel forged and hiss of hot metal in water...and the murmur of excited dread of an army waiting to march. 

He froze. War? Yes…War...The smell of burning still lingered on the edges, of course, but he had not recognised it. 

And then he realised where Gandalf was, and Rávëyon. Pippin had been sent to keep him company, and Gimli...He turned back into the room to find the Dwarf looking at him with immense sorrow and loss, as if he had already gone.

Gimli had been trying to say goodbye. 

He stared at the Dwarf accusingly. ‘And you think you can do this without me?’ he demanded.

Gimli rolled his eyes and plopped himself down in the chair again. ‘I knew it was a mistake to come back here. Aragorn told me not to. But oh no, I can’t just go off without saying goodbye to my friend, even though he did that to me!’

‘When did I do that to you?’ Legolas demanded indignantly. 

‘Oh, let me see?’ Gimli pretended to consider in an exaggerated and irritated way. ‘Oh!’ He nodded to himself sarcastically. ‘Perhaps when you went off into the Mountains, with Elrohir...’ he stopped abruptly and rubbed his hands over his eyes.

‘When? When did I do that?’ Legolas was still furious. ‘I said goodbye - I gave you the oak leaf!’ Gimli and Aragorn were going to leave him here and ride into battle without him! He had come all this way with them, fought by their side, saved their lives and been saved by them more times than he could possibly count, and now... ‘You think that because I have been injured I am a danger to you and to myself,’ he said with realisation. And in his heart he knew they were right — he would never allow one of his own Elves to remain on duty if injured...but at Helm’s Deep everyone had to fight, and how was this any different?

He stopped. Helm’s Deep? This was not just what Gimli had told him; there was a memory of a moving, restless sea of orcs, horror overwhelming him and they had thought then, to despair. But they had changed that, he remembered. They had not been defeated, but victorious. Together, as a Fellowship. ‘I will not let you go alone!’ he declared.

Gimli laughed cynically. ‘Oh, I won’t be alone. There’s a couple of thousand going with me. What’s one more Elf?’ But then he softened and laid his strong clever hand on Legolas’ arm. ‘What’s one more Elf, Legolas? Please! You are not yourself. You have this lapse in your memory and who knows if you can use a sword or if you have forgotten. And you cannot draw a bow with that!’ He pointed at the wound in Legolas’ chest.

Legolas bristled with fury, for he knew the truth and he clenched his fists and cried out in frustration. ‘Then let us try it,’ he challenged, ‘Gimli! I know I have only part memories but that does not stop me from fighting! Do not leave me behind!’ And the words sounded familiar and he saw in his memory a woman with long spun-gold hair. Standing on the steps of a golden-roofed hall, white dress flattened by the wind over her breasts, belly, thighs. He puzzled at the pain and elation of the memory and could not remember who she was.

Gimli breathed a heavy sigh. ‘Legolas, you have done enough. You can go home. Indeed, I wish you would, for if we fall then war will come here again soon enough.’

‘And it does not visit our own lands?’ He gasped then for a memory surfaced; of yellow smoke coiling around burning trees and a trophy hoisted high above the caterwauling Orcs... a bright gold pennant, a heavy weight that slid a little down the huge iron spear, and moaned. ‘Adar...’ He turned to Gimli in disbelief and pinned the Dwarf with his ice-green eyes. ‘Is it true? Gimli? My father?’

Gimli spread his capable hands wide over his knees and Legolas realised Gimli knew what he himself had remembered. 

‘Durin’s beard, Legolas! I want to spare you but...’ he sighed and gave up. ‘That was Saruman. We threw him down in Orthanc and he sent you a vision of your woods in flames and your father slain...We have had no news. Neither you nor I nor Gandalf ...any of us … know if it is true. I hope it is not.’

All the fire went out of Legolas and he sat heavily on the bed and looked down. Their shadows on the cool stone wall seemed to lean against each other and Legolas turned to Gimli.

‘I am going with you. If I cannot draw a bow, I can still guard your back. I would not stay here to see the slaughter should we fall, and I would not make it back home now with war tearing at the lands between. If we both fall, then we have given everything we can, and though we part until the Ending of the World, Gimli Elvellon, I will not let you go ahead while I stay behind to mourn you.’

He reached out and again, clasped the Dwarf’s shoulder, but this time, it was a plea. Gimli closed his eyes and sighed.

‘Aragorn’s going to be really, really cross,’ he said finally. 

Legolas gave a radiant smile and clasped his hand. In the morning, he would ride with Gimli to war. He would not be left behind and somehow that would have been a horror to him and he knew he was supposed to be there, in that last battle. But first, there was something he should have done, a moment missed and he could not ride out to war, perhaps to his death, without putting this right.

“We need to find this Elessar and tell him what we intend,’ Legolas said with determination and when Gimli raised his eyebrow and slowly shook his head, Legolas simply smiled even more widely. 

Gimli looked up at the elf and said patiently, ‘Legolas, Elessar is Aragorn.’

Legolas moved towards the door. ‘I knew that,’ he said irritably. 

‘And do you know who Aragorn is now?’ Gimli asked equally irritating. 

Legolas threw him a sharp look. ‘Of course I do,’ he retorted. ‘I have simply mislaid that information for the moment. If you and Pippin keep treating me like an invalid though, I shall never leave this room. Come then.’ He stepped lightly out of the room and into the wide pale stone corridor. ‘Let us find him. You can tell him what we intend.’

‘What YOU intend,’ grumbled the Dwarf following. 

‘You agreed with me.’ Legolas walked towards the wide stone stairs and he held out his hand uncertainly to lightly graze the wall with his fingers.

Gimli did not pause but he trotted along to catch up and took Legolas’ arm. Legolas did not demur but let the Dwarf steady him as his head swam a little and he felt nauseous. But he would not give up now that he was out of that room with its blank white walls and its featureless floor. There was something he wanted, but he couldn’t remember now what it was...a scent, a lingering scent of...He shook his head slightly. Gone. It left a fading yearning in his heart.

‘No, I did not agree. I was bludgeoned into it,’ Gimli said and a warmth on his arm reassured him, brought him back. He smiled.

‘That is because the song binds us, Gimli. You feel the threads that wind between us, bind us together in one ribbon...’ He paused a moment for something tugged gently on his mind. He placed his hand on the strong, muscular shoulder of the Dwarf and leaned on him for his strength and warmth. ‘You came for me and I stayed with you,’ he murmured and even though he did not quite understand his own words, he felt comforted.

Then he grinned wickedly. ‘Groin?’ 

Gimli gave him a sharp look. ‘Gró-ín,’ he corrected acidly. 

Legolas grinned, even more widely, showed his white teeth and looked absurdly pleased. ‘Come then, son of the son of Groin,’ he said and Gimli gritted his teeth and tried to decide if he was really happy the elf was back

000o

Aragorn spread his hands over the map of Ithilien and Gondor. His eyes drew quickly down the red line that was the road to Osgiliath and then darted along the same line towards the image that was the ruined city to Minas Morgul. He placed his finger carefully back at Osgiliath and traced a second red line off towards the Black Gate. 

He squinted slightly for there were scribblings on the edges of the map, thin spidery letters in tengwar. Nazgul guard the way here...and elsewhere a scribbled note... Crossing lost...J20 3018 Osgiliath lost. Aragorn wondered briefly, sadly, if these were Denethor’s writings. Some were older. So long had Minas Tirith been besieged for here were markings with dates on them. Then one or two in a different hand with recent dates. He wondered if those were Boromir’s.

Thorongil’s guard ... F20 2978. The rest of the tiny script was smudged and Aragorn’s breath caught. He did not know that this record existed. Absently, he dug a thumbnail into the soft wax and watched it seep from the cut, beading fatly as it cooled.

The chamber that had been Denethor’s still showed his recent occupancy. A red robe was cast over a dark wood chair as if its owner had simply stepped out for a moment. Books, charts, maps, quills and a compass were strewn over the large table. It was late and the setting sun lit the room with red-gold light. Aragorn paused and thought it a good place for a study with its views across the gleaming rooftops of the white city and beyond to the broad river, winding over the land. He felt a sudden surge in his chest - this was HIS city, his people. He moved the heavy pewter candlestick closer so the light glowed golden over the parchment and the thin black line of the roads showed up starkly. 

There was a murmur of voices in the corridors beyond the chamber and Aragorn shook himself slightly. The heavy oak doors opened silently and there was Legolas. He strode into the room but Aragorn saw the slight hesitation, the almost imperceptible straightening of his shoulders. The candlelight burnished his hair and caught the high flush on his cheeks, but they were a little hollow and there were slight shadows under his eyes. Aragorn thinned his lips and glared at Gimli as the Dwarf entered. Gimli would not meet his furious gaze and seemed to be hiding behind Legolas. 

‘Legolas. Gimli.’ He pinned them with a fierce look and Gimli wandered over to the window and looked out, feigning nonchalance. 

‘My lord...um?’ Legolas looked inquiringly at him, and Aragorn sighed.

‘I am Aragorn.’ He sat heavily in a chair and gestured for Legolas to take a seat opposite himself. The Elf sat down, looking as if he would fall if he did not. ‘Gimli,’ Aragorn called sternly. ‘You will join us.’ He hoped it sounded sufficiently commanding, but Gimli just glanced over his shoulder and cupped his ear.

‘Eh? Can’t hear.’ He tapped his ear and shook his head. ‘Temporary loss. After the battle you know. Orthanc fire or oliphants trumpeting.’ He turned back to the window.

‘It will be that oliphant you killed,’ Legolas said, with more than a trace of skepticism. ‘That one you killed single-handedly.

‘Ah.’ Aragorn allowed himself a quick, knowing look, and Gimli at least had the grace to look a little abashed. ‘That will have taken your total up to several hundred I would think.’ Gimli folded his arms and glared at them both.

‘Ara-gorrrrn,’ Legolas said, savouring the name on his tongue. ‘Aragorn.’ He leaned forwards and rested his elbows on the table, on the worn map, carelessly tipping over a wine glass that had a dribble of red wine left in it. The wine trickled out onto the map and Legolas wiped it away with his sleeve. ‘Aragorn. Ah! You are also Elessar,’ he said brightly.

‘And Strider,’ Gimli said helpfully.

‘I thought you couldn't hear,’ Aragorn said with quiet acidity. 

‘He’s called other things too that are not as pleasant,’ Gimli shot back nastily.

Legolas laughed and suddenly pointed at the map. ‘So this is your route?’

Aragorn glared at Gimli who shrugged.

‘He heard the army,’ the Dwarf said defensively. ‘I did not tell him. He guessed and insisted on coming here.’

Aragorn narrowed his eyes and then looked down at the mark on the map that showed the Black gate, the Morannon. He breathed in slowly. ‘The Black Gate. Yes, we ride tomorrow and strike at the heart of the enemy on his own doorstep.’

Legolas nodded but absently touched his hand to his forehead gingerly. ‘Doorstep... someone else sat on the doorstep… I remember hearing...Oh.’ His face cleared and he opened his eyes wide with relief. ‘It was Bilbo. He said he sat on the dragon’s doorstep...’ He dropped his gaze to the map without really seeing it. ‘Smaug. Smaug really was magnificent you know. Evil, but utterly magnificent. We will never see another dragon. I was terrified.’ He laughed softly, unexpectedly and then rubbed the bandaged wound in his chest. ‘This hurts...it feels cold, frozen somehow but burns too. And when I try to think of it, something...stops me, like a wall comes down...a silver-blue wall and I cannot think...’ he trailed off, his eyes becoming unfocused. ‘I don’t like the way it feels. It reminds me of...of Dol Guldur.’ He shuddered.

Aragorn noted with a sinking heart the pallor of the Elf’s face, the shake in his hand. Abruptly he pulled the map towards himself; Legolas needed a distraction and if he were honest, Aragorn himself dreaded any repetition of the screaming they had endured the previous nights. ‘This is the road we will take,’ he said. ‘We will ride along the old road to Osgiliath and then to the crossroads. We ride in the shadow of the Ephel Dúath, and so to the Black Gate.’

Gimli rolled his eyes at Aragorn and he had to agree it was hardly the best distraction but it was all he could think of right now.

‘Why don’t you tell him how many men we have,’ Gimli said sarcastically. ‘That will really help.’ 

Aragorn threw a look at the Dwarf and then realised Legolas was looking at him with renewed interest. ‘Well?’ Legolas asked. ‘It must be worthy of note for Gimli would not have said it otherwise.’

Aragorn looked down at the map. It was ridiculous, he knew. A fool’s hope. Legolas would scorn the idea. He would himself if he were not the doomed leader of these men. ‘Seven thousand men,’ he said and knew it sounded even worse than he thought, for Legolas gaped at him in blank astonishment. In any other circumstances, Aragorn would have found it comical.

‘Ah! Now I know why the Last Alliance took so long to win. They had too many men surely!’ Legolas shook his head at them, eyes wide. ‘Look!’ he said, pulling the map toward himself. He dragged his finger along the mountain ridge. ‘You will be picked off too easily here. The Enemy will put archers and small bands of Orcs up here to harass and harry you. Here,’ he stabbed his finger at different points of the map, ‘and here the Nazgul will attack and pull back as quickly as you turn, and here.’ He pointed at another point on the map. ‘Here is Durthang. Do you know what that is? Of course you do. Seven thousand? By the time you reach the Gate you will be fewer than five hundred, and even a Woodelf does not fancy those odds!’ He shook his head again in wonder at them both.

‘Gimli,’ he said, rising unsteadily to his feet and clutching the edge of the table for support. ‘I have changed my mind. You are quite mad, all of you. I will follow your train like carrion and pick up your dead bones when they have finished with you. It is foolhardy and more dangerous than anything even I could imagine. I can only suppose that Gandalf has something to do with this.’ 

The insult to Gandalf passed Aragorn by as he stared at Gimli accusingly. ‘What do you mean, you have changed your mind and will not come?’ 

‘I had decided I would not be left behind.’ Legolas leaned forwards slightly, resting his weight on the table. It was quite clear to Aragorn that he should not even be on his feet, much less considering riding to battle. ‘But I am no fool to ride into certain death. This is fewer men even than we took to assault Dol Guldur! It is ridiculous!’ He shoved his hair back over his shoulder impatiently for a moment and stared at them both ‘You will die,’ he declared. ‘You will both die.’ 

‘What do you mean - you decided you would not be left behind?’ Aragorn demanded, ignoring the last comment, throwing an accusing look at the Dwarf and then turned back to Legolas. ‘You are in no fit state to be doing anything but staying in bed and getting well.’

‘Aragorn...’ Gimli shook his head vigorously and reached out to Legolas, resting his hand on the Elf’s arm.

Legolas shook Gimli’s hand off his arm. ‘Are you suggesting I am not capable...?’ he demanded, glaring at Aragorn.

‘Aragorn...’ 

Dimly aware of Gimli’s repeated attempts to interrupt, Aragorn answered Legolas’ question instead. ‘Yes. I am suggesting just that.’ Aragorn was on his feet now, mirroring Legolas, hands gripped on the edge of the table and leaning forwards, bristling. ‘You have a serious injury. You have only just recovered from one wound and off you go and get another. You can barely stand and you cannot possibly draw a bow!’

‘You cannot command me! You have no power over me.’

‘Yes I do. You swore to follow me. And now I am commanding you to stay behind!’ They were both leaning forwards, closer now, each with fists clenched. 

‘Follow you!’ Legolas cried triumphantly. ‘Exactly. I swore to follow you! And follow you I will.’

Aragorn swore loudly and impressively and Gimli sighed and sat heavily on one of the chairs. He thumped his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands. ‘Well done, both of you. I should just get you two into Mordor and you can argue with the Nargûn-Uzbad* himself. He’ll probably give up and go quietly.’

‘This is your fault anyway, Gimli,’ Aragorn could not help muttering. ‘I knew you wouldn’t be able to keep quiet.’ 

‘Me? Outrageous!’ Gimli spluttered. ‘He heard the army moving, Aragorn. How would you think he would not guess with all that noise? I knew it was doomed from the start, and then he goes and says he won’t be coming and you talk him into it again!’

‘All you had to do as to keep him quiet and still, just keep him in his room until we had gone, pass over to Ioreth or someone and slip out yourself. But you had to go and tell him.’

Legolas coughed quietly and stood, leaning against the wall. Aragorn saw the tightness around his mouth and began moving towards him.

Instead Legolas held up one hand to stop them both. ‘I remind you,’ he said quietly, ‘neither of you will stop me. I have sworn to follow Aragorn, as you reminded me.’ He looked at Aragorn and there was no mistaking the determination in Legolas’ eyes, tired as he was, injured as he was. ‘Gimli, I have sworn I will not let you fall. And you will if you ride on your own. So it is settled. I will go with you.’ He pushed himself to his feet again and held up a hand to forestall their protests. ‘Now, I have unfinished business.’

Aragorn held up his hands in resignation and shook his head. ‘You said we were fools to march up to the Black Gate and if you are fool enough to come with us, then you do what you will, Legolas. But if you think we are going to let you wander about on your own now, you are wrong. Look at you. You can barely stand.’

‘Legolas, listen to him,’ Gimli appealed to the Elf. ‘You cannot think you will be able to ride tomorrow. At least say you will be carried in a wagon. And stay here now, rest.’

‘Do not make me use the window,’ Legolas said firmly but at Gimli’s look of mute horror he conceded. ‘Very well, you may come with me, but you will leave me when I get there.’ 

‘The only place you should be going now is back to the Houses of Healing. I don’t know why I agreed to bring you here in the first place...’ Gimli grumbled and pushed himself to his feet. 

Aragorn realised suddenly that Gimli too was weary and had been injured, knocked unconscious by a fall from Arod as they galloped down the Mountain with the Nazgul in pursuit. He felt the hairs on his neck and back rise slowly at the thought. And they had so nearly lost Legolas. Indeed, he had never thought to speak to the Elf again after that last meal together only two nights ago. He found himself smoothing the edges of the map that had been crumpled by Legolas pulling the map towards himself earlier. Red wine stained the parchment and he tried not to think it was like blood, for that was melodramatic. But the old, dried ink was smudged now and he could no longer read it, and when he glanced up, Legolas’ long green eyes were fixed on him and he had a strange smile on his lips.

‘Do not seek to confront the past now with your future so brightly laid out before you,’ he said cryptically, and he sketched a careless bow and grinned widely. Gimli seized the Elf’s arm then and he looked down at Gimli with such affection, Aragorn felt suddenly moved. He felt a strange lightening then of his sombre mood and realised he had been dreading the last journey without his friends and without their cheerful banter. He was glad to have their steadfast hearts at his side.

 

tbc

* This reference is to the prequel of this story, Deeper than Breathing. In it, Legolas kills Grima Wormtongue in Meduseld.  
Nargûn-Uzbad- Khuzdul name for Sauron. Mordor’s Lord (Ardalambion)


	31. Confessions

Disclaimer: As always, only playing. Never happened. Wish it had!

Beta: The truly incomparable Anarithilien.

Warnings: Graphic violence of a sexual nature. But if you’ve come this far, you are expecting this.

 

Chapter 31: Confession

 

A small, perfectly carved wooden horse had been placed on the granite window sill and Gandalf wondered briefly where it had come from. It had a semblance of Shadowfax, he thought, watching the shadow of the running horse cast by the evening sun. The carving had appeared inexplicably after the Fellowship had last sat together for supper, the night before Legolas had ridden up into the mountain. He stared at it, its tiny hoofs running, tail flowing as though it were real not some solid substance. He wondered who had carved it...left it as a remembrance...and slowly he let himself become lost in thought, in the Song, that flowed and swelled and caressed him, soothed him. 

He was tired. As tired as he had been after fighting the Balrog. As tired as he had been when he defeated Saruman. He felt that slow, mental fatigue that dulled the mind...and so he had retired to think. He wondered had he done enough to distract Sauron from Mordor? Was it enough to convince the Enemy that the Ring was not clutched in the small hand of a wide-eyed Frodo? That instead of Frodo, it was Merry who had been seen by the unfortunate Ranger captured by the Nazgul? Merry, who had killed Angmar, and who now lay in Minas Tirith. 

Gandalf half closed his eyes, let Narya lightly cast a glow over his own memories, enhancing, clarifying, sharpening what he saw. Unflinching he pulled out what he had seen in Legolas’ mind the first time, the night the Elf had been half carried, half dragged by Elrohir to his rooms; Legolas had been lost in cuivëar, trying to escape the probing search of the Nazgul. 

Now the Wizard focused on those images from the Nazgul’s mind when it had entered Legolas in search of the Ring...

...There was a Man's face, a Ranger, tortured and screaming and a touch only from the Nazgul brought him to screaming anguish. The Nazgul ripped into the Man and then… ahhhhh…. yesssss….

…A small, pale face stared up at him with eyes that had faded under its too-heavy burden…Frodo… Frodo on his journey through Ithilien… and another small shape crouched nearby, muttering and whispering… Gollum… Gollum… With terrible slowness, the Eye of Fire turned away from the White City and seared Ithilien with its burning gaze.

Was it enough? Had the Eye turned back to Gondor? Did it even now rake the city with its gaze, probing, searching feeling for its Precious...Gandalf pulled on his pipe, eyes wide and lost in reverie. Legolas had not given them away, he knew. As Legolas lay stunned and drugged in the Houses of Healing, Gandalf had searched and probed his mind even as the Eye had... Even as the Nazgul had. Even as Legolas had opened his mouth and that heart-stopping screaming had burst from him....

Gandalf suddenly blinked. He felt a surge of shame for what he had done to Legolas; he had been intrusive and inflicted pain on this youngest son of Thranduil, had sent him a willing sacrifice to the Nazgul. But it was certainly still less than he had asked of Frodo. The Wizard blinked slowly. What had he become? 

He had not seen Sam, Gandalf remembered. He had not seen Sam and somehow, the thought of that hurt him the most. 

A long stream of pipe smoke escaped from his lips. 

Sam. 

Ah, he sighed. Nothing he could do now. Both Sam and Frodo had gone beyond his sight. And Legolas...Entrapped by the Nazgul and cut by a Morgul Blade....Not good. Not good at all...

He felt suddenly old, in the way that Men did. Bones ache and blood becomes sluggish. Memories fade and dull. He was not Olórin, just Gandalf, an old Man who was tired in his bones.

Gandalf looked down at his hands as he did now and again when mortal flesh felt heavy upon him. His blood beat slowly in the corded, knotted veins. He saw the bones of his hands through his translucent skin, and the knuckles bony and gnarled like an old tree’s roots. He stared for his hands were suddenly unfamiliar. The flesh felt strange, like a new robe that felt too tight, that had not settled on his skin and Narya sat loosely on his finger. He breathed in deeply, as if to reassure himself that the air was still clean and would feed his lungs. And as he did so, he caught the scent of the breeze coming off the Anduin, its brackish scent reminiscent of the sea, and he was seized with such a longing for home that it almost hurt. He wanted to go home. 

The wind from the Sea caressed his cheek like a hand, teased his beard and hair and he thought he heard a voice lingering in the edges of the breeze, pure sound, no words, just Song... Surely it was part of his yearning? he thought. But he, who was so used to putting hope in the hearts of others, felt suddenly renewed.

Gandalf stilled and let the great chords and sweeping harmonies wrap him in their music and let himself drift for a while. What was a whisper of song in the breeze built into huge notes and blended into the symphony and the crescendo that was building, and even the most insignificant notes were needed to make it whole. A single green-gold thread of melody danced through the music. It lightly touched the great harmonies, one thread in the great music, barely noticeable, lightly twining between others heavier, greater than himself. Olórin noted the lofty blazing song of Elrohir, and puzzled that it wound itself greedily, despairingly about the green-gold thread of song, coiled about it almost crushing, but not quite, just drawing sensuously tight about the light gold-green harmony that ran playfully through it. Almost the songs merged into something terrible and beautiful. Olórin caught his breath... and then it dissipated and that green-gold thread came loose and unravelled, and the lofty blazing song faded out of the harmony completely. But like some masterpiece that has you listening more intently for the disharmony, it was part of the Great Music.

He sighed and sank back into his flesh and bones. His was not the gift of song. There were those who could unravel the complex intricacies of individual notes and songs, to understand their stories and harmonies and move them to greater harmony. Radagast was such a one. He could listen and move a single thread, a single harmony that reverberated amongst the Great Music. It was a greater gift than wisdom, thought Gandalf. 

For Gandalf, he needed to hear it spoken, see the faces of those involved, hear their heartbeat. He pulled on his pipe and sent out a thought into the fading evening, a thought that would bring Elrohir to him because Gandalf needed to understand what he had done. Sent out with Legolas to make sure he gave away no more than was necessary, to deliver the milui-criss, he had instead returned, bringing Legolas with him tenderly, utterly bewitched and wound about with Shadows and darkness. 

Gandalf frowned. He sent a smoke ring up and it hung for a moment near the ceiling, drifted. 

That sword too, he recognized. He had not known that Elrohir had reforged it. It drank of its holder’s strength, his power, saturated itself in his fury and guilt and used him to drench itself in hatred and blood. Gandalf could not regret the defeat of Khamul, but he did not trust that dreadful dark blade, and therefore he could not trust the hand that wielded it. 

A thin stream of smoke escaped his lips and the wizard gazed into the distance. 

Stories within stories within stories.

For a long while, Gandalf continued staring into the middle distance, remembering the night Elrohir had brought Legolas to him, drifting in and out of cuivëar. Elrohir had gazed at Legolas like he was starved, feeding off the sight of him. Legolas had called him Rávëyon, Son of Thunder. 

Gandalf sank again into reverie, let his physical self melt away and focused on pure thought...When Legolas and Elrohir had left him that night, Gandalf had conceived of the plan that would send Legolas to his certain death, assured by the assassin who would go with him. And perhaps it was not coincidence that he had met Elrohir and not Elladan the following day. Perhaps Elrohir had an ulterior motive for wishing to accompany Legolas onto the Mountain. And what might that be? 

Gandalf frowned and chewed the end of his pipe. Elrohir was proud. Proud and strong. He had driven the Nazgul off from Legolas on the city wall, and again on the mountainside. Was that really possible, the Wizard wondered. Or were the Nazgul not driven off at all? But had instead chosen to leave the city wall, to leave both Elves. And again on the Mountain, why use the Morgul blade and not simply take Legolas or kill him as Gandalf had anticipated?

It puzzled him why the Nazgul had taken such risks. Why did they make such sport of Legolas, with Elrohir looking on? It was a spectacle. Intended for Elrohir perhaps?

Ah. It came out of the breath of night on the Mountains, an echo lingering still. Gandalf stilled. Yes, that was what had happened. Elrohir had never driven off the Nazgul. It had seen its chance, tempted him with the one thing Elrohir wanted and desired. And what was it that was so irresistible to Elrohir that he might forget all he was sworn to do? What might be so tempting to him that he could not resist?

Gandalf’s eyes went wide. Suddenly he knew. He knew what they offered. He knew why they had used the blade, and he knew what they had intended. And because of that, he knew also what the Nazgul had wanted. Oh, they wanted the knowledge Legolas had, wanted too to feed off his purity, his light and elven vigour. And it probably pleased them that it was the one who kept shooting their beasts, that it was Thranduillion they feasted upon. But there was more. There was Elrohir. They wanted Elrohir himself.

The brethren that are Eight can be Nine once more.

And so Elrohir had gone with Legolas to...to... what? To treat with them? Had he intended that and backed out, realising the enormity of his betrayal? Or had he never intended to betray, but had some other secret plan of his own?

Whatever Elrohir’s intent, Olórin knew Legolas had succeeded in his task. He had clung desperately to the tiny sliver of thought during that dreadful torment he had endured... Merry. The Ring. In a Hobbit’s hand. Merry slew Angmar. Merry was in Minas Tirith. 

And because of that, War came. Olórin saw how it would be; legion upon legion upon legion of orcs approaching across the plains like a great tide rolling onwards. Clouds of bats and crows, like the Battle of the Five Armies, like heavy storm clouds over the mountains, descending upon the army of the West like they were already carrion. 

They were too late. Too late leaving the city. Too late marching upon the Black Gate. Olórin knew in his soul that he needed to be elsewhere, should already be on the road. He saw how it should be: a great army; the Host of the West, helms and spears flashing in the sun and they rode out and crossed the great silver-shining river to the Tower of the Moon. He saw a colossal statue of the King obscenely defiled by orcs, restored, and a crown of white flowers...He saw Aragorn standing nearby, Anduril unsheathed in his hand and he looked West. He saw too Legolas and Gimli astride the Rohan horse, Legolas strong and well, long hair flashing gold, wide smile teasing... 

That was how it should be, but it was not. Instead Legolas lay in the Houses of Healing yonder, kept from the horror of what he had endured at Olórin’s behest by magic. And that magic would gradually dissipate and Legolas would have to confront what had been done to him.

Gandalf did not know or fully understand the impact of Elrohir’s deceit and treachery, but it had pulled the threads of Vairë’s tapestry askew and nothing was as it should be. The white Wizard drew his robes about him, for suddenly he felt cold. Settling himself against the sudden chill, he waited. Elrohir would come. And when he did, Gandalf had every intention of challenging him for his treachery and unnatural desire. 

xxxxxx

It was not long. Unlike his father, Elrohir was not known for his circumspection and Gandalf felt his coming before he heard him. He felt the energy and power, impervious to command, the purposeful footsteps. Grandchild of Galadriel indeed. Elrohir shared blood with Feanor and it beat in those veins with the passion of his ancestor. It gave him sinews of iron, a will of steel. Elrohir was a force, power leashed...and Gandalf saw how Sauron would want to use that power, would attempt the seduction. He saw too how Elrohir would refuse to be used by the Darkness, but seduction, ah, that was another thing entirely. Sauron knew him well.

‘Come,’ he called a moment before a determined knock sounded and the door opened slowly. ‘Don’t dither. Come in properly and account for yourself,’ he grumbled and scowled as if all he did was receive the wayward son of his old friend, and he did not rise from the comfortable chair in which he sat.

Elrohir entered the room hesitantly but not humbly. Defiant almost, thought Gandalf. He nodded cursorily to the low chair opposite his own, but Elrohir remained standing, shoulders back, head up, not in the least like a penitent. Gandalf said nothing, just peered at the Peredhel knowingly. 

...The Brethren of the Eight who were once Nine search for the Halfling. He has It. It is precious to Him…it seeks to return to its Master…

And we were once Nine...

Gandalf sucked on his pipe thoughtfully and peered at Elrohir, looking through the flesh to the crimson red power beneath. So much guilt. So much love. So much passion. The blood of Beren washed in his veins and Elros called him, Gandalf thought. Yes...he knew the ways of Men better than the Elves. 

‘I must speak of what happened.’ Elrohir said tensely, unaware of his companion’s mood or understanding. He walked stiffly to the window and looked out over the city, the streets that in the evening before they marched, were full of men at arms and horses. The city prepared for war.

‘I have to tell you what happened,’ Elrohir repeated, more awkwardly. Reluctantly, thought Gandalf. He waited, sitting, not entirely patient, but this time he knew it would do him no good to press this one’s mind, impervious as it was. And strong. 

‘It began on the night of the battle of Pelennor,’ Elrohir began suddenly. Elrohir’s head was bowed and Gandalf could not see his face. ‘It...the Nazgul... tempted me.’ 

‘That is no news, Elrondion.’ Gandalf scrutinised the Peredhel. Elrohir’s shoulders were slumped as if in shame. As he should be, thought Gandalf. But all he said was, ‘They tempt all of us. The Ring itself whispers.’

Elrohir glanced up suddenly. ‘Even to you?’ he asked as if there were still hope. 

Gandalf peered at him with bright blue eyes. ‘Of course I know what They whisper,’ he said matter of factly. And then as if it were no more than an impulse, he looked up at Elrohir and smiled gently. ‘What did They offer you?’

Elrohir reared back in horror and Gandalf pinned him with his gaze that went through flesh and saw the spirit beneath. Guilt and love indeed. And more, a darkness fed by shame. Gandalf released him as quickly as he pierced him. Elrohir still stood like a stag at bay, breathing quickly through his nose, eyes wide.

‘That is not yours to know!’ Elrohir cried defiantly. 

Gandalf did not reveal that he already knew and he continued gently, ‘Then to whom will you truly confess? Who will absolve you?’

Elrohir breathed deeply and it seemed all the defiance and pride was exhaled with his breath, leaving only guilt and shame. He looked away from Gandalf. ‘Those I have wronged the most. I will tell them all.’

Gandalf looked at him and thought what a formidable enemy he would be, how powerful he was, for his energy thrummed and tingled in the air, and he knew this Elf warrior could be dangerous. He had a darkness in him that shadows flocked to.

‘You did not tell me this when I asked you to go with Legolas to encounter the Nazgul. It would have changed things had I known,’ he pointed out mildly.

‘I did not think it your business,’ Elrohir replied with asperity. 

Gandalf merely struck a match, for his pipe had gone out. He tutted as he lit it once more. The flames cast an orange glow on the limestone walls for a moment. The light reflected briefly in Elrohir’s eyes. 

‘But it was my business,’ he reminded Elrohir quietly and drew on his pipe. The bitter pipeweed lingered in his mouth and he sighed. Compensations indeed to mortal flesh. 

‘Now - let us not indulge in recriminations,’ he said more briskly. ‘All is well that ends well and we have you to thank for Legolas’s return. So tell me what happened so I may know how we might use it.’

‘I wish now I had told you before, Mithrandir,’ Elrohir turned away and took a deep breath. ‘We only escaped because you and my brother were there to meet us,’ he admitted and there was humility in that admission, thought Gandalf. ‘I took too great a risk, but I thought to avoid all this. I thought they would leave him if they had me.’

‘You never had any intention of doing as I asked.’ Gandalf said drily. ‘Instead you thought to trick Sauron. I would call you a fool but I think you have called yourself much worse. I suppose you were surprised that they did not do exactly as you thought?’ He could not help a little irritation in his voice, for Elrohir had risked too much and he remembered the strange charge in the air coming down from the mountain, had known the words thrown up into the sky like inky black threads tangling in the wind. ‘And you thought they came at your summons. But they were waiting for you. They went after Legolas instead of meeting you.’ He allowed himself a thin smile which Elrohir could not return.

‘If you had confided in me we could have planned this together,’ Gandalf continued. He pulled his pipe from his mouth and glanced at it in irritation for it had gone out once again. ‘There was never any need for Legolas to be there. You would have been sufficient,’ he said conversationally, lighting the pipe again. ‘Why did you not tell me? And why did you put Legolas at risk in such a way?’ He pulled on his pipe and looked at it with a frown as it did not draw straightaway. ‘If we had not come upon you, he would be unhoused at the very least. And at worst, a thrall.’

He glanced at Elrohir’s face to judge the truth of his own surmise and saw how Elrohir was steeped in tremulous horror, and something else...longing. And perhaps Elrohir knew that for he stepped closer to Gandalf now and stared down at him. His mouth opened as if he wished to speak but no words came. It was eerie seeing the face of his old friend, Elrond, looking down on him with such self-hatred and anger. 

Gandalf himself, who had seen much, who had walked the dark passages of Dol Guldur, nodded. ‘Ah. So that was what they offered. Legolas in thrall to you.’ He drew on his pipe deeply, to anchor himself in the here and now. Not wanting to see more, for he could if he chose. But he did not wish to see what had tempted Elrohir. 

Elrohir had stepped back, his face crumpled and he turned away in shame.

‘I know what I have done, Mithrandir,’ he said softly. He took a deep breath. ‘It is but one of many terrible deeds. And I do know that in the end, had you not come, they would have devoured him... and I would have trembled useless and in the end, succumbed to save him. I know that now. He stopped me from using Angmar’s Ring. Legolas knew and beseeched me to stop...so I did. But sooner or later, when they came...I would have.’

Elrohir stood staring out of the window. He did not see the stars, Gandalf was sure, for though his shoulders were square and his spine straight, every line of him spoke of misery. His long hair was bound severely in a long tail down his back and Gandalf, with a sudden shock of recognition, saw the likeness to his father, Elrond. So had Elrond stood on hearing that Sauron had risen again in Dol Guldur. Sauron, whom they believed defeated in the Last Alliance where so many, many lives had been lost...Gandalf shook himself slightly.

‘So in short, you dealt with the Nazgul and they broke your trust?’ he said relentlessly, his voice a little harder. ‘Surely not unexpected? But you have still convinced them the One Ring is here.’ Gandalf drew on his pipe and contemplated what he had also seen in Legolas’ mind. He too had held fast to the illusion. A Hobbit had the ring. A Hobbit slew Angmar. A Hobbit lay under the Black Breath in Minas Tirith. Aragorn.

He chewed the end of his pipe and felt around the edges of the song, how the many different melodies twined and loosed and drifted and soared one into the other. There above the great symphonies, the lofty soaring song that was Elrohir still wound about the green-gold thread that danced playfully, lightly through those greater melodies...and then it faded, and the green-gold unravelled, lost...

Gandalf paused for a moment to think, and then he said, ‘I do not know whether to curse you or thank you, Elrondion. We have Legolas safe. But not sound by any means. He will remember of course, some time.’ He looked up in time to see the devastation on Elrohir’s face. ‘I cannot keep that wall up forever between him and what happened. Eventually he will remember.’ 

Gandalf paused for a moment and met Elrohir’s wide, frightened grey eyes. ‘You cannot run from everything, Elrohir,’ he said gently, for he saw the shame that suffocated him, followed him, clawed at him and he could not escape. With sudden foresight, Gandalf understood the meaning in the Song and its fading. ‘The Way of Men is not the escape that you think it is.’ 

He paused, kindly, for he was prompted by his beloved Nienna and her compassion too. ‘Legolas has a loving and a generous heart. More than most,’ he added wryly. ‘As an immortal you will have time to atone, for he may not forgive you straightaway. But in time...’ 

Elrohir turned suddenly and stared at him in shock or horror or, Gandalf peered more closely. There was something else. Something deeper. Something...Suddenly he saw a confused mix of images; Legolas bound, twisting, long hair falling down his back...and then an orc, mouth gaping in its orgiastic release… and Elrohir...and then suddenly he felt a surge of power slam him back and he fell against the wall. He gasped for breath that had been driven from his lungs and stared.

Elrohir too stumbled back, clutching at the wall for balance, driven back by his own unexpected power. His terrified eyes met Gandalf’s briefly and he fled.

Gandalf slowly pushed himself upright, groping for his staff. His fingers curled around its strong stem and he let warm energy seep into his bones. He breathed slowly, for the shock of being repulsed so strongly left him weak. He had no idea the sons of Elrond had such power. And those other images...the orc, and beneath that, others... He knew too well his old friend’s source of sorrow, and his deeper sorrow that his sons were so often far from home, pursuing orcs that caused their mother’s torment...but that furious storm of guilt and hatred that flooded Elrohir was not for orcs. It was for himself.

oo0000ooo

Elladan walked purposefully down the marble floored corridor of the city’s sterile palace, leaving Imrahil and Eomer in the council chamber. He did not know where Aragorn was right now but he had left him earlier in Denethor’s old study and Elladan hoped his foster brother was resting and not staring into the Palantir. There was the touch of darkness about that globe. It seemed that Sauron reached out from within and stroked even Elladan’s mind with promises, visions. 

No, he was hard with himself. It was not just the Palantir. It was the touch of the cold iron ring left behind on the Mountain. Angmar’s ring. That was what had put things in Elladan’s mind; it was the old power of iron that lured him. And he had rejected it absolutely, dropped the ring where the Nazgul would find it. It was not for him. He did not want it.

Nor did they want him, he told himself wryly. It was Elrohir they had wanted. He shuddered and pushed away the thought. He did not want to think about that for the moment.

His footsteps echoed through the empty, dark palace and the moonlight slanted over white marble, making it cold, washing everything in a pallor too like death for his comfort. He shuddered again. He had a sudden vision of Elrohir’s face, still and cold and pale. Too cold. Too pale. He stopped suddenly and reached out to steady himself against the wall. It seemed he could not escape his brother, even here, alone in the empty night. Elrohir...awash with blood and fury and guilt, drawing Elladan himself into concealing his own guilty secrets. For Elladan admitted he had colluded with Elrohir, covered up his brother’s lustful obsession with Legolas... It was not the first time he had hidden his brother’s crimes. Did that not make him just as guilty?

Cold statues stared down at him. The moonlight, brighter than it should be, cast long shadows over the black and white marble floor. Cold it was. Again, Elladan shuddered, for it felt like a tomb, and he saw again in his minds’ eye Elrohir, now wrapped in his sable cloak, with Aícanaro placed on his breast, lying in this very place on a stone slab.

No!

He burst outside onto the wide marble steps and where the green sward ran from the palace to the fountain and the dead tree. The water splashed softly in the pool, and the moonlight was still. Above them the stars were hard and cold and bright, like jewels and he looked up to see their kinsman sailing across the clear sky. Too high to overhear, too far away to help, thought Elladan, and he wondered if Eärendil was really up there, physically, or if it was just a children's bedtime story.

He paused at the edge of the fountain and looked into the water at the stars reflected above.

He pressed his hand against his forehead and stilled. 

Elrohir...had watched. He had watched their gentle mother’s rape by orcs. 

It was stark and brutal. 

Elrohir had not let anyone else touch her when he carried her screaming, out of the den. He had stopped everyone even from seeing her and knelt by her, drenching her with his power, his desperation... his guilt, thought Elladan bitterly. At what point did he realise it was her? Did he think it was some half-orc female, or did he know? Celebrián had been utterly destroyed. They had all seen it, how she pushed their father away, pushed little Arwen away and then pulled her close. She had been frightening. 

Only Elrohir would she tolerate. Yes... when first they emerged from the orc dens she had struggled and torn at his face and it was Elladan who had finally calmed her. But it was Elrohir who had always been her favourite. It was Elrohir she leaned on during that last, tormented journey to the Havens. It was Elrohir whose face she caressed finally before she hurried away to the waiting ship as if her feet might fly over the ocean, might spread her cloak and it catch beneath the wind like Elwing and fly off.

And her last words to Elladan had been of Elrohir. Look after him, Elladan. Your brother needs you more than you can know. Forgive him. Keep forgiving him for he cannot forgive himself. He had not understood. But now...horribly... he thought he did. And he realised she must have known that Elrohir had seen, hesitated at least. 

It had never bothered him unduly that Elrohir was the favoured son, for she tried to hide it. But she could not stop the softness in her eyes when Elrohir leaned over to kiss her or to ruffle her hair playfully, though she had spent time dressing it. There was a playfulness between them that was not between her and Elladan. He had never been as passionate, as playful, as angry as Elrohir. He was...

Moonlight on still pools.

He breathed in deeply. Legolas. Still he wanted Legolas, even after the Woodelf had so clearly pursued Elrohir. And it was as it always was; Elladan would give way. As he already had. Legolas belonged now to Elrohir and Elladan had stepped aside to allow his brother whatever he wanted. As always.

Elladan felt like running. It was too complicated. His emotions strung and wound together like some knot in the thread of his life and Elrohir the knot, pulled too tight and he could not unpick it. In the moment of weakness and doubt it seemed his fingertips prickled, sent his nerves jangling through his fingers.

He leaped to his feet and slammed his fist against the stone wall. The sudden pain exploded, made him angrier and instantly he was standing back on the mountain, with the smell of blood and power surging through him.

Do you know what he sees? He stood and watched...he watched and he dreams of it... But he does not want to only watch this time...look...'

And the mist seemed to whirl about the ghost and merge with it, to pool and form an image... he saw a figure bound before him, long golden hair, yellow like sunshine. It swept down against the lean form and a darkness stood behind it…hands roaming over the bound form so it cried out in fear...

'You watched! You stood and watched!' he had shouted, his own pure sword raised high. Metal against metal shuddered and scraped. And then suddenly he was above Elrohir and he did not care that he sliced his blade against the dark sword, driving past his brother's guard, wrestling him to thrust his blade into his brother's treacherous heart. He stood astride his brother and holding with one hand his throat and in the other his sword poised to pierce his brother through.

And now, here in the cold clear night in the city, Elladan wished he had. For it was worse than he thought possible. He remembered again that time, long ago, Elrohir returning in the deeps of winter, ashamed, torn, guilt-ridden. What had happened that time? What dreadful secrets had he yet to uncover? He knew that Elrohir had not shared a bed with anyone since their mother was found in the orcs’ den. Now, perhaps he knew why. But it wasn’t clear. Did Elrohir find himself reminded of the horror and lose his desire? Elladan had always trusted it was this that stopped his brother from finding release. But now, he wondered. Was his desire so unholy, so perverted, that he hid from it?

 

oo000ooo

 

Elladan lost track of how long he sat at the edge of the fountain, lost track of when he stumbled to his feet and lurched to his own chamber, collapsing on the bed and chest heaving with emotion that felt like it would burst from him. He knew he fell into uneasy sleep because he woke suddenly.

It was late when he felt the disturbance.

He felt his coming before he heard him and he tensed. It was the tremor in the air around him, a tide of energy, a crimson flood of fury and guilt seething around him, coloring the air and drawing energy towards him. Elrohir approached. 

Elladan tensed. He did not want this. He was not ready to face his brother with all that guilt and anger and...and yet...he loved him still.

It was a quiet knock on the pale wooden door and the iron handle turned. Slowly the door opened, hesitant as if Elrohir were afraid to come in. 

‘Elladan? May I come in?’ 

Yes, that hesitant, nervousness. Elrohir was always like this after he had been discovered. And he was always forgiven, by his father, mother, himself. Mother especially; it had never rankled as much before. But this time was different. He didn’t trust himself. His hands needed something to do, he did not want to have to turn to Elrohir when he came in, so he clumsily groped for a candle, lit the single flame and watched it flare briefly and settle. 

‘It is unlike you to wait, brother,’ he said and wondered that this voice was so steady. 

There was a flask of wine, so he poured it into two cups with a steadier hand than he expected. He handed one to Elrohir and drank the other himself. The flavour exploded on the sides of his tongue, lingered in his mouth. He looked at it without appreciation. 

‘They have raided Denethor’s cellars it seems,’ he said coldly. 

Elrohir sipped his cup. He could not even be tasting it, Elladan thought.

He breathed in and tried to still himself, as he had been taught. Still pools, dark under the forest eaves, cool water, the sense of himself swimming, the water sliding over his skin...

‘You have spoken with Mithrandir?’ 

Elrohir nodded, looking away, ashamed. ‘Yes’

‘And what did you tell him?’

‘I told him what concerned him.’ Elrohir turned away, as if to leave. There was such bitterness in his voice. ‘But he took what he should not have.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He looked too deep. He should not have. It is not his to know!’

Elladan reached out then and clasped his brother’s shoulder, but it was not affectionate. He gripped him to prevent him from running, as he wanted to do himself. He did not want to hear what he was going to force from his brother’s lips, but he would do it all the same. 

‘Perhaps you will not tell Mithrandir everything,’ he said soberly. ‘But you will tell me. And this time, you will tell me the whole truth. You will not lie or conceal. Tell me about her.’

Elrohir bowed his head and his long, raven-blue hair fell around his face. He did not look up but was very still, as if collecting himself. When he spoke, it was in a quiet voice, hushed, confessional, as if he did not want to hear it himself.

‘How can I tell you? How can I?’ He sat heavily on the edge of the bed and put his head in his hands, hiding his face from the one whose own features were his, but unblemished, unsullied by what they had seen. ‘I cannot forget a single detail. It haunts me...day and night. I cannot forget...’

‘Nor can I,’ Elladan said bitterly.

It seemed forever before Elrohir spread his hands and spoke again, quietly, ashamed. ‘Elladan, our Adan blood is strong in my veins. I have always felt that you were close to the way of the Elves, and I to Men. I know when they fight and the blood is up, it is not so far from lust ...it is power over another. I feel it in my blood - and I know that you do not. And I ...I have laid with other warriors in the aftermath - the rough coupling and the passion and fire that is both a relief that we are alive and ... something more.’

Elladan stifled a cry that tore from his lips. He had known Elrohir was different from him, full of a different fire, different passion. He remembered with unwanted clarity that cold November day when Elrohir’s horse had picked its way down the mountain pass, out of the wilds and into the valley. He remembered those strange markings on his body that looked like deliberate wounds...He pushed himself to his feet, not wanting to sit so close now, and strode to the window. A gulp of wine washed down the lump in his throat, but he barely tasted it, barely knew what he was doing. He vaguely thought the wine might make what was to come easier to bear. 

‘Do you know what stops men from doing as they will?’ Elrohir asked, more to himself than Elladan. ‘It is the fear of judgment, corporeal or other-worldy. That is what stops them. Mostly. But I have ridden with men who are not rangers...Wolfsheads. Outlaws. I have seen what they can do to the vanquished... and I have not always stopped it. Sometimes I have turned away, and sometimes... I have not.’

For a long time, he did not speak, and Elladan half turned towards him in the darkness. The single candle he had lit guttered in a breeze.

‘Then..after...after we found her...’ He paused, swallowing. ‘After we found her, I could not... could not forget, and whenever I tried to...whenever I became aroused... it reminds me...and I can not...can not push away the thought of what I have done, what I ... So I have not...’

Elladan could not hear any more. He whirled away, wished the room were larger so he could at least pace. Instead he found the cup of wine and drained it, poured another and drained that. He felt Elrohir watching him.

‘Tell me!’ he demanded brutally, relentlessly.

‘I will tell you, Elladan, I will tell you all.’ Elrohir’s voice seemed elsewhere, far beyond Elladan for Elladan felt like he was falling, was plunging back into his own dreadful memories. 

‘We were too late.’ Elrohir’s voice dropped to a whisper, his voice full of anguish and despair. ‘We were too late and then when we found her...those caves, the stench, the hot putrid air...’

Elladan did not care about his brother’s anguish, he remembered how they had stood together on the high ridge of the Misty Mountains. They had looked down onto that hidden valley and seen the devastation, the dead horses, and crows feeding on the mutilated bodies of Gilmir and Curopher. Their arms and feet had been hacked off, their torsos, horribly, sickeningly, gnawed at and torn apart, as if they had been fought over. Elladan was not the only one who had been violently sick at the sight. But not Elrohir. The missing members of the attacked party, Calanon, Arandur, and Celebrián, of course, were nowhere to be found.

Elladan closed his eyes. He wished he could forget. But no, he could not. The suffocating, airless stench was all around him. The heat stole his breath. He remembered it- step for step, breath for breath... they had crept into the caves, the whole group spread out, searching, fighting and killing anything they found. 

He had followed Elrohir into the dens. There was dried blood and old bones, picked clean in the caves, ashes of fires. Elrohir had picked up a brooch and showed it to Elladan. The last time Elladan had seen it, it had been pinned upon Arandur’s cloak and he had been laughing, for it was given him by a sweetheart. They stepped more carefully over the bones then and searched for only two. It was not the first time they had searched orc caves, but it was the first time they had done so for someone they knew, someone they loved… for someone they should have protected.

Elladan had always had a horror of caves, of being closed in, of being stuck. It was close, suffocating. The stench closed over his nose and mouth like a decaying hand, stinking of excrement and urine. He tried not to touch anything, more fastidious than his brother who did not care, who was just desperately searching, easing himself round the corners and bends of the tunnels ahead of Elladan... Elladan had struggled with his own breathing, feeling the panic welling up but forcing it away... This was his mother down here somewhere. His mother, gentle, sweet, who smelled of lavender and roses... somewhere in this hell hole. Courage surged and he pushed himself after Elrohir who had vanished in the twists and turns of the cavern halls. Elladan found himself at a junction of two tunnels- he could hear nothing but the roaring of blood in his ears...his terror of being lost...But he held still and listened. 

And then there was a sudden shuffling and grunt and a searing pain in his arm. He swept around, his sword slicing the viscous air and heard a jeering curse. He crouched and forced himself still. Then he heard it, another shuffling lunge, and he drove his sword upwards into the belly of the orc. It gurgled clutching its throat as it fell heavily, wretchedly onto Elladan. He pushed it away in disgust and clambered to his feet. He felt warm stickiness on his arm and a tearing pain. He cursed himself for his stupidity... And then he heard it. 

A stifled scream down one tunnel. He ran, uncaring of his own horror. He knew that beloved voice. His held his sword two handed before him as the torches flickered on the walls, his own shadow looming hugely ahead and then beside and then fell behind until another ran ahead of him. A screaming tore the air apart then and he knew. He ran…Mother...Mother...Mother

Elladan wanted to cover his ears and block out what Elrohir was saying in his low halting voice, so unlike himself. Elrohir’s story was different from Elladan’s and he told Elladan how he had found their mother, how he had heard the same grunts as Elladan but had run on ahead. He had seen the orc shoving itself against a thin huddle of rags...and he had paused and watched...

‘No.’ Elrohir stopped himself and closed his eyes. There was a long silence and Elladan thought he would scream, felt it building in his chest and wanted to tear at his brother’s anguished face. 

Then Elrohir said, ‘I did not only watch.’

No! No! Elladan felt his throat close and he pushed himself to his feet and paced, hand to his head. He wished he could block this out, Elrohir’s confession. He had heard the stifled screams, breathed the suffocating darkness that seemed to seep into his flesh and soul. The stench had made him retch and he had lost Elrohir, let him go on alone while he struggled with his horror of the caves. And he did not want to remember...he did not want to see what Elrohir made him see...

The screaming tore through the dark and finally released him from the suffocating panic. He ran down the hot tunnel after Elrohir, sword gleaming in his hand. A cell door stood open and he heard a gurgling. He recognised the sound of blood filling up a throat that had been cut. An orc lay twitching and gagging. Its throat bubbled with blood and its eyes stared at something else Elladan could not see...

Suddenly Elrohir had burst past him, clutching a thin huddle of rags and matted, bloody hair. It had been shrieking and clawing at his face but he merely turned his face away from the thin claws and pushed past Elladan...

‘I..I think... I stood for a moment... I have a memory of...my hand in her hair.’

And Elladan could see in his mind then, what the orc had been staring at before Elrohir had barged past Elladan. His fists clenched in fury. The images ran in his head and he would never be rid of them now!

Elrohir stood rampant over a pile of rags and filthy matted hair, a shapeless huddle that whimpered and cried. He pulled her head back, fist in the long cornsilk hair. A pale breast showed through the torn fabric. Elrohir stood, hard and erect, straining through his breeches, looking down, sword in his hand. Blood soaked the shining blade...And then he heard the broken voice, saw the hand reaching out to the orc’s short blade...and he cried out in horror and shame.

Elladan barely listened to Elrohir’s hushed, ashamed, broken words... sometimes weeping, sometimes long pauses of silence that seemed to string out, long thin silences that emptied into the night. Elladan listened in shocked despair, in the spiraling downward whirlpool of his own guilt and memory.

‘No! Enough! Enough!’ he cried suddenly. He sank onto a stone bench and buried his head in his hands. He could not listen anymore. He could not forgive his brother. ‘What would you have done if you had not recognised her? Would you have...?’

He dug his nails into the palms of his own hands and clenched his teeth. 

‘Forgive him,’ she had said as she left, holding his gaze with her broken pain. And he never understood until now what she wanted him to forgive... but she had known. She had known he had stood there, hand fisted in her hair, pulling her head back and thinking about it... ‘Forgive your brother everything. Promise me my strong one. He cannot forgive himself.’

‘How can I forgive you?’ He shoved Elrohir hard in the chest, pushing him away while hot tears spilled down his face. He wanted Elrohir gone so he did not have to think about him. And he thought he could never, never forgive him though he saw Elrohir’s face crumple.

‘No. Do not forgive me.’ Elrohir tore at his own hair and moaned. ‘I cannot forgive myself. Tell me what to do?’ He grasped at Elladan’s tunic and stared at him with wild, desperate eyes. ‘I will kill myself if you wish it! I will throw myself into battle! I will storm the gates themselves if it will undo what I have done!’

Elladan stood staring at him, blood pounding in his veins, hating Elrohir. Hating that he himself had not been there sooner, for if he had he could have stopped Elrohir. If he hadn’t stopped in the suffocating tunnels, perhaps she would still be here. Perhaps the reason she could not recover was because Elrohir, her son, her precious son, had stood over her, sword in hand and had thought about raping her. He covered his face with his hands, unable to bear it any longer. ‘Get out!’ he cried. ‘Get out before I kill you myself!’

Elrohir took a step towards him, hands outstretched. ‘Then do it! I cannot live with myself, Elladan! I cannot live with it any longer. Please. Give me some penance that I may atone. I will take the way of Men so I never come to Valinor. You can go in peace, and Mother will never have to see me. I will die and go the way of Men, I swear this, Elladan. My fea is no longer Elvish, it is mortal. I will die and you can be in peace!’

He turned away from Elladan and strode to the door, throwing it open. The wind swirled around him for a moment and Elladan stared frozen in horror. Then the door closed and the night quiet slid slowly back.

 

00ooo00o0o

Elrohir threw open the door and fled from the room into the cool night. Stars netted the sky and a cool breeze drifted scents of the spring night but he was oblivious.

He found himself standing beneath the White Tree, its dead branches hollow as his heart felt. This had all come about because of his unnatural, violent lust.. .And the one time he had sought penance, that cold winter he had returned to Imladris bowed and defeated, his own violent nature and innate power had spilled out, beyond any bounds of decency and it would have been a violation had the one upon whom it was visited not welcomed it. 

He was indeed cursed, beyond all hope of redemption. He was not worthy of love, not worthy of forgiveness, not worthy of Legolas certainly who had so willingly offered himself up for the sake of the Quest. 

Bitterness filled his heart then and his thumbs prickled slightly. But he was attuned now to the Nazguls’ thoughts and sensed them high above, wheeling over the city. The cold that crept down his spine didn’t intimidate him. The faint shriek that spiraled down into the city and set men’s teeth on edge as they slept or whetted their swords and made them look upwards or stir restlessly in a sleep filled with nightmares did nothing to him. Elrohir stood and lifted his face to the stars.

He knew then he would not return from the Morannon. He would ride out and seek death. It was not the first time he had thought this, but this time it was no mere thought. It was his resolve. He would become mortal and fade and die. He would escape into the way of Men.

 

And then he heard a breath and turned. 

Legolas. As if conjured by his own desire, the Elf was there. Starlight caught in his hair, on his skin, turned him silver, mithril, precious beyond all else. Elrohir’s heart leaped and thumped and plummeted all at once. 

Elrohir eased himself back into the shadows and hid in the darkness as he watched. Legolas stood for a moment and looked around, straight into the shadows where Elrohir stood but Elrohir let his own power surge quietly around him, hiding him and it fell over him like a cloak. He watched Legolas peer into the shadows with his head tilted in that way he had. It made his long hair fall and Elrohir wanted to push his hands through it and catch his mouth in a kiss...Almost he gave in, almost he strode forwards and caught Legolas in his arms, wrapped those strong archer’s arms around his own waist. Almost. But he did not. He was so unworthy. He had betrayed everyone. Elrohir stepped further back into the shadows and hid further in the darkness.

Legolas stood motionless, staring straight at him but Elrohir knew he would not see him. Then abruptly Legolas blinked and looked away. He leaned heavily against the wall as if he needed the support. His head bowed and his chest heaved a little. He looked suddenly vulnerable, weakened and injured. But then a strong, short figure emerged immediately behind him and stopped in front of the Elf. There was a quiet exchange where Elrohir thought the Dwarf would scold Legolas, but instead, with utmost tenderness, Gimli put his arm about Legolas’ waist and held him. Legolas bent his head slightly to hear the Dwarf’s words and the long sheet of gleaming hair fell and hid his face from Elrohir. Then he straightened, and leaning on Gimli, he made his way out of the garden and back into the House.

Elrohir waited. He remembered that kiss, the first below decks on the SeaSong where he had been mistaken for Elladan, and then the second in Aragorn’s tent, where he had not.

But he could still remember and savour the song, the moment, the kiss. It would hurt no one. He brought out that perfect elven memory of the kiss, like it was a jewel, the sensation of the sharing of his song with Legolas, the brilliance of it, and the sense that he was soaring over a green place, a forest filled with light...amongst the new pale green leaves as they unfurled, filtering the sunlight so he was bathed in a pale green light. He remembered the stillness of deep forests, clear water pooled amongst the ferns and mossy boulders and bubbling over granite and slate…

He remembered how he had taken hold of his heart and leaned closer until he was pressed against Legolas, between his thighs, his face against Legolas' flat belly breathing in his scent, beneath his heart, his hand over the wound that he himself had inflicted, like a precursor to the morgul blade. He remembered how he had wanted to cover that body with his own, not in a violent frenzied lust that wanted to hurt, but in desperate tenderness, lavishing long languid strokes on his skin, his flesh. He had wanted to sink into the scent and Song and flesh. He took out the memory of Legolas sprawled lewdly in the chair, head thrown back and his long, wintergrass hair sweeping behind him, lips parted as though he were ravished...and Legolas had kissed him, pushing his mouth against his, tongue forcing its way into his mouth, against his own tongue with a passion and desire that shook him to his bones. With his free hand he had clasped the back of Legolas' head and pulled him closer, deeper.

But when the long green eyes that were half closed in ecstasy, had flown open and looked up towards the tent opening in horror, Elrohir had fallen back. He had felt the tide of fury and despair overtake him and proved himself unworthy over and over and over. He could never touch Legolas again, never let the Elf listen to his song again. He had to cut this tender new love away before it was too late. 

He had squandered that chance. He had thought once he could be safe there, with Legolas, and that those horrific memories that had spoiled him, ruined his innocence and love, might even dissipate under the pale green light. Even the long wheat-pale hair that was tangled in his fingers would not take him to that dark place. He had fooled himself into believing that he was perhaps not that twisted, depraved thing he feared. 

But he was. 

tbc

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	32. A Memory of Rohan

Author's Chapter Notes:  
Just for those hankering after a bit of Eomer!

 

\-----------------------------------------

Disclaimer: no profit etc

Beta: As always my thanks to Anarithilen. 

 

Chapter 32: A Memory of Rohan

Day broke and the sun shone. It felt more like a gala than going off to a final battle, thought Gimli. Horses tossed their heads proudly and the sunlight gleamed on a forest of spears. Banners fluttered and pennants whipped in the light wind from the West. A good omen, he told himself and chewed the end of his beard anxiously. 

Legolas sat on the city wall with Pippin, both laughing, and below them Merry was placed carefully in a chair on the lawn in front of the Houses of Healing, a blanket over his knees. Gimli reached down and absently tucked it round the Hobbit’s knees. He half heard Legolas telling Pippin some scandalous story about Gandalf but he did not listen. He was sure it would be made up anyway.

It seemed strangely domestic to be tucking in a Hobbit when all around him banners flapped and whipped in the wind and horses stamped and whinnied to each other, impatient to be off. Here the Dwarf and his companions seemed to be mere spectators, not waiting for the order to be off. It was for Merry they lingered a while.

‘At arms!’ A shouted order was followed by a sudden clash of steel as a company of pikemen raised their staffs and they tangled with each other in disarray. The sergeant at arms shouted at his men and cursed them for their clumsiness. 

‘The King has returned and might as well lead a bunch of maids as you rabble!’ he shouted. 

Gimli barely registered it for here was he, leaning over a wounded Hobbit, a hero, the slayer of Angmar.

‘You’ve already done that twice now, Gimli,’ Merry’s voice was so weak it hurt Gimli to hear it, but he glanced down and smiled cheerfully instead. 

‘...had bells in its mane!’ Legolas was saying somewhere above him. ‘Is that supposed to frighten away the Enemy? Really!’ The Elf laughed and it was good to hear but Gimli did not really pay attention. Gimli knew Legolas was merely taking Pippin’s mind off what was happening. He wondered if that was what Legolas did for the young warriors on their first sortie back in the Forest. It was as good a way as any, he supposed. But the Elf was still pale and every now and again, he pressed his hand against his chest and his eyes became unfocused. Although he seemed to have recovered his wits if not his memory of all that had happened since Rivendell, and for that Gimli thanked the Seven Fathers. 

Gimli tidied things around Merry and made sure the Hobbit could easily reach for them, but his mind still wandered; Legolas still kept asking after someone called Rávëyon and Gimli had no idea what he was talking about. He thought it must be someone from the Elf’s past so he just ignored it for the most part, making reassuring noises whenever he asked. But Legolas’ persistence bothered him. A puzzled, almost hurt look came over Legolas when he spoke of it, and his hand crept to his chest, where that dreadful wound was.

Below them in the courtyard, men were assembling, getting themselves in rows. The Rohirrim stood beside their horses, waiting, shouting to each other. 

‘Look, there is the Prince of Dol Amroth,’ said Legolas and Gimli looked up to see the tall Imrahil striding out of the Steward’s House. Sunlight flashed on the mail he wore and gleamed in his hair. ‘It is clear that Nimrodel and her people did not all sail,’ Legolas added. Gimli looked up sharply for signs of that distance that seemed to take Legolas when he thought of the Sea, but there was only wistfulness, as if he were on the brink of something that was just out of reach. Imrahil caught sight of them and raised his hand in greeting.

‘He’s coming this way,’ said Pippin excitedly and Gimli saw Imrahil stride towards them, but a soldier drew him away and he could no longer see him in the crowd. 

‘It will be time soon,’ Legolas tilted his head and watched Gimli for a moment, sliding his gaze towards Merry and Pippin briefly. 

‘We have a few more moments surely,’ Gimli said, suddenly reluctant to bid Merry farewell. This last sundering of the Fellowship seemed so final. And Legolas understood and inclined his head.

‘You are fortunate to have a Dwarf looking out for you rather than an Elf,’ Gimli said looking down at Merry, but his heart was not in it and his words sounded weak even to him. Merry smiled dutifully. Ah, but he was so pale and thin, thought Gimli. Merry had barely eaten since he awoke. That was unnatural for a Hobbit but he resisted the urge to fetch food for it must irritate Merry to have them all hovering over him like this. 

Gandalf appeared astride Shadowfax amongst the Rohirrim.

Standing stiffly, Gimli let his gaze wander over his companions. Legolas was laughing conspiratorially with Pippin. In contrast to Merry, Legolas looked more and more like himself. The bandage round his chest was, Aragorn had said, more to keep infection out than to staunch any blood, for the wound was unnaturally bloodless. It did not seem to hurt much either but Legolas occasionally put his hand to it and winced, or looked pained. When asked though, he merely said it was cold, nothing more. Just cold. 

It was odd, thought Gimli, that this wound seemed to be in the same place almost as the one inflicted by Elrohir during that dreadful fight at Linhir; that one would not heal it seemed for ages, and then suddenly it did and off he went and got another one just like it. Gimli tutted and resisted the urge to tell Legolas to sit down, to keep warm, to eat something.

‘Are you sure you will be all right, Merry,’ Pippin was fussing over his cousin now and he too, tucked the blanket in tightly around Merry’s knees.

‘Don’t you start, Pip,’ Merry said, and Gimli noted the weakness in his voice that had always been so bright and chirpy before. ‘It is bad enough that everyone I care about will go away into that gloom that hangs above in the eastern sky, and I have little hope left in my heart that I will see any of you again.*’

Gimli glanced at Pippin and as Pippin straightened slowly, he looked into Merry’s eyes. He did not smile or speak, but he held out his hand and Merry reached up and clasped it. Gimli felt almost like he was intruding. He glanced away, catching Legolas’ eye as he did.

‘You are not fit for such a journey,’ Pippin said and then he gave Merry a wry smile. ‘Besides, you have already earned great honour for the Shire. More than I ever will. When they tell stories, they will all talk of Meriadoc Brandybuck and Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee. I doubt anyone will remember me.’

‘No!’ 

All turned then towards Legolas for it was he who had interrupted Pippin and he was very agitated. ‘If we do not all perish, I will remember all your deeds, Pippin.’ 

Gimli sighed for he thought if Pippin perished, it was likely Legolas would too, and he himself for that matter. But Legolas’ next words astonished Gimli.

‘I do not wish to take any renown from you, Merry, for your name will be sung nigh on many a year in my father’s halls, but if it were not for Pippin, surely Frodo would never have escaped the Black Riders in the Shire?’ 

Gimli turned to Pippin, knowing his mouth was agape.

Green eyes alight with indignation, Legolas went on, ‘And no one would ever have guessed Saruman had captured Gandalf were it not for you, Pippin. For that matter, we would all still be thinking the One R...’ 

Pippin squeaked a little and tugged Legolas’ arm, hissing, ‘No, Legolas, it’s absolutely fine that I stay in the background.’ 

Gimli knew his mouth had dropped open as he looked first at one and then at the other. 

‘No, Pippin, it is not all right!’ Legolas declared. ‘It is about time someone acknowledged your part in this. When it comes to the telling of this tale in the forest, your deeds at the Bruinen will not go overlooked! You are too modest Pippin, for I know you have not told me all your part. And I know well there are others,’ he glared at Gimli, ‘who would take credit for what you have done. I think you, Gimli, especially should give Pippin his due. YOU certainly would not be here if it were not for him dragging you away from Balin’s tomb in Moria.’

Gimli felt a growing outrage at this completely undeserved criticism from Legolas. ‘I beg your pardon, Legolas! I have never begrudged anyone their moment! I am generous in victory and defeat; why even though you only slew... forty...five orcs I think as I wasn’t counting, I still acknowledged your skill!’ He had no idea what he had told Legolas earlier and by the look on Legolas’ face he was not fooled either.

But a more devastating and raw emotion had been touched upon and this, he could not overlook. ‘And I did not have to pulled away from...from that place,’ he cried, for he was still unable to dwell on the moment. ‘Smaug’s balls, Legolas! Do you think it was Pippin who came back for me?’

There was a moment’s awkward silence and Gimli could not believe that Legolas had indeed forgotten how it was he who had returned to the shadows to catch Gimli’s arm and drag him from that place, Gimli had been almost too deep in grief to act except to strike out in fury and grief. “How could you forget?’ he asked, stunned by his own reaction as much as Legolas’.

And as if that had touched some deep memory, the Elf frowned and paused so that Pippin had time to tug on his arm.

‘Legolas? Did you say you were going to get your horse?’ PIppin said, looking sheepish. ‘Let’s go now.’ He tugged again on Legolas’ arm. ‘We can come back again before we actually leave,’ he added, even more brightly. The Elf rose to his feet at Pippin’s request, and if it was a little less smoothly than usual it was only the practised eye of a Dwarf that saw it. 

‘Very well, Pippin,’ Legolas said looking down at him. ‘But I will make them understand what you have done before the end.’ 

‘Oh? Really? You will?’ Gimli asked innocently but he threw a challenging glare at Pippin. Then smiled thinly for they had to pass Gandalf to get to the stables. ‘I am pleased because I for one would like to hear exactly what Pippin has done. He has never, I think, told me what part he has played in the discovery of the One Ring, because I always thought it was Gandalf who discovered it,’ he said loudly. Pippin squeaked and scurried past Gimli and the Dwarf could not help but feel a sense of smug satisfaction. 

He nodded at Gandalf as they passed and it was clear the Wizard had not been paying attention because he barely acknowledged any of them, so intent in discussion he was with Eomer. But Gimli could not help but notice how the young King’s eyes followed Legolas with a barely disguised longing as he passed.

 

oo00o

It was pleasantly cool in the Steward’s Mews, and the familiar smell of hay and horse reassured Aragorn in the way that the magnificent black stallion that had been selected for him, did not. He stroked his own weary Roheryn’s nose and the horse leaned against him companionably. Even Aragorn had to agree Roheryn was exhausted and he could not force him to go further. But it put him in a bad mood. It didn't feel right. Nothing felt right. The black stallion was a war horse, one from Denethor's’ own stable true, but it pranced showily having been trained to do so. No good in battle, he grumbled to himself, and looked down the line of horses left. The horse stabled next to Roheryn was a Dunedain horse also, Suldal, whose head was low and he had not eaten since his master fell. Aragorn stroked the forlorn horse’s nose in silence, for he too mourned Halbarad’s passing. And that was what did not feel right. That absence beside him. 

He glanced down the stalls to the bright sunshine outside, glinting off the shields and spears, and he caught a flutter of his own standard, now carried by Baelderon. Baelderon sat astride his own horse and it champed the bit and shook its long mane. 

Aragorn turned back to the forlorn Suldal and scratched behind the horse’s ears as Halbarad used to. No. Nothing was the same. It unnerved him when he needed his nerves and wits about him. He wasn’t ready for this. 

A sense of peace washed over him quite unexpectedly.

‘Are you ready, Estel?’ Elladan asked quietly. He placed his hand on Aragorn’s shoulder and he felt the warmth and love soothe away his grief as it always did. He was reminded of his childhood, of feeling safe and protected. 

Taking a deep breath, he smiled. ‘No, I am not ready,’ he said. ‘I am terrified. What should I do?’

‘Ride to the head of the column,’ another voice spoke and Elrohir stood on his other side. He too put a hand supportively on Aragorn’s arm and smiled grimly. ‘They want you to be their King. Make sure you look like one. Ride at the front, look ahead, hold you head high.’

‘Don’t fall off,’ Elladan said lightly. Aragorn laughed, surprised. Elladan squeezed his shoulder slightly. ‘Mount up when all others are ready. You must not be the one waiting.’

‘They must wait for you.’ Elrohir finished for Elladan but his voice trailed away, and only a fool could ignore the tension between the two brothers. Aragorn looked carefully first at one, then the other, but their gaze slid off one another, like duelers unwilling to fence.

‘You have quarreled?’ he asked, unsurprised for it had happened before but these things had always passed like summer storms and he was not concerned. ‘Do whatever you need to do, but please resolve it quickly for my sake.’

There was an uncomfortable silence and then Elladan said stiffly, ‘I do not think we can ever recover from this.’ 

Aragorn stared at Elladan, his gentle, kind brother, but Elladan looked down and away, and would not meet his gaze.

‘Surely there is nothing that can come between you that cannot be repaired?’ Aragorn turned to Elrohir instead. ‘Elrohir? Apologise for whatever you have done and finish this. It cannot be so great!’ But he saw the devastation in Elrohir’s eyes and knew that it was not so simple. When Elrohir hesitantly reached out to Elladan, Elladan shook his head and moved away as if he could not bear Elrohir’s touch. 

‘Elladan?’ Aragorn caught his arm and stared into the grey eyes. But he had never seen Elladan so tormented and hurt and...and angry. It made him pause for Elladan was ever the calm, generous brother...and here he was, refusing to even meet Elrohir’s devastated eyes, or even endure his touch. 

‘If this is something you need to do, my brothers,’ Aragorn said softly. ‘If you need to speak of something, I beg that you do for my sake. I need you both at my side.’

Aragorn watched carefully as Elrohir sought again to meet his brother’s gaze. He dipped his head slightly to try to catch Elladan’s gaze even if only fleetingly, but Elladan almost slid away from him. 

‘This is not about you, Aragorn,’ Elladan turned away. He hesitated and then seeking perhaps to soften the harsh words he reached out as if he would catch Aragorn’s arm but his hand fell back instead and he looked down as if in sorrow. Then he shook his head in some mute denial, or horror he could not comprehend and turned away. 

Walking swiftly out into the sunlight where a groom held his black horse still and Baelderon struggled to lift the sable banner aloft in the wind, Elladan did not pause or turn or look back. He put his foot in the stirrup and swung himself into the saddle, gathered up the reins of Baraghuir and rode off amongst the waiting Rohirrim.

Miserably, Elrohir leaned against a stable door and put his head in his hands. Aragorn felt bewildered and suddenly afraid, he put his hand on Elrohir’s shoulder. ‘Elrohir? What has happened? I will go after him, speak to him. He cannot mean what he says!’

‘No!’ Elrohir’s voice was muffled but his distress was clear. ‘Estel. Leave him. There is nothing you can do, nothing you can change.’ 

Aragorn shifted and stood behind him, wanting to do more than just stand uselessly by. ‘Tell me what to do?’ he murmured. If it had been Elladan he would have easily slipped his arm around his shoulders, leaned his head against him but somehow, with Elrohir it had never been like that, never been easy. 

‘It is not for you to change, Aragorn,’ he said hoarsely. ‘It is for me to change. But what is done is done and I can only atone.’

Aragorn stared at Elrohir’s bowed head and remembered he had said the same words in the Houses of Healing at Legolas’ bedside. ‘You said you had to atone for a wrong done to Legolas,’ he said carefully. ‘You said if necessary you would sail. What has happened here? Why is Elladan so hurt and angry?’ He grasped Elrohir’s arm and said urgently, ‘If you have to atone for a wrong done to Legolas, why are you not with him?’

At this, Elrohir pulled his arm free from Aragorn and lurched away from him, keeping his gaze on the ground as if ashamed. ‘Please,’ he said and Aragorn was not used the pleading in his voice. ‘I know you will not understand but please, trust me. Even if I do not deserve it! It is part of my penance. I will guard Legolas from afar, I will guard his back even as I guard yours. I will not let him fall, nor you.’

Panic surged in Aragorn’s heart then. ‘Elrohir, you will not sacrifice yourself though? You do not seek to leave us?’

‘If I happen to fall in defence of all that is good and pure in this world, Estel,’ Elrohir said and finally he looked Aragorn in the eye and he smiled sadly, gently upon his foster brother, ‘then I will believe myself acquitted in part for my other deeds of which I am less...proud.’

Aragorn opened his mouth to speak, to demand more, to know more about Elrohir’s crime when there was a loud whinny and sudden shuffle of hooves. The few horses left in the stables put their heads over the stable doors, straining at their halters, ears pricked and even Suldal, Halbarad’s horse, gave a low nicker. Elrohir’s head was turned in the same direction and every line of him was tensed with anticipation and something else... Aragorn would almost say it was yearning. 

Then someone was coming, whistling tunelessly and cheerfully, sauntering down the aisle. The horses huffed and nickered in delight. A tremendous whinny came from the almost empty Rohan section. 

Aragorn sighed and turned to look at Elrohir but he had gone. 

‘Elrohir?’ he called, but there was no answer and he could not see where his brother was.

At that moment, Legolas sauntered into view followed by a rather more breathless Gimli and Pippin trotting along trying to keep up with them both.

Gimli glared at Aragorn and stopped, crossing his arms and planting himself in the way that he had, that made him seem immovable, like the very mountain itself, thought Aragorn, still searching for Elrohir.

‘It’s no good looking at me like that, Gimli,’ he said, guessing the source of Gimli’s irritation. ‘It was you who told him what was happening.’

‘It was YOU who told him...but I will let that pass,’ said Gimli crossly, scowling in the direction of Arod, who was now banging his hoof against the stable door.

Legolas glanced at them both and smiled in an irritating way.‘I told you last night, Aragorn. I cannot let you go on your own,’ he said airily, sauntering past them both and reaching into a bin of oats. ‘There’s bound to be a Dwarf with poor aim, or an Orc with good aim from whom I have to protect you. You know you cannot win without me.’

Aragorn wondered if it was worth getting the Gondorian guard to overpower Legolas and throw him in some dungeon, just to spare them all the Elf’s unbearable smugness. It was not the first time he had thought that and, he was certain, it would not be the last.

‘You seem remarkably recovered,’ he said dourly, pulling on the straps of his uncomfortable armour, feeling weighed down, cumbrous compared with the Elf who wore his usual tunic and only had his quiver and knives. And the noise Arod was making, and for that matter the other horses’ excitement, was getting on his already strung out nerves and fear that his brothers seemed unreconcilable.

A shadow seemed to pass briefly over Legolas’ face and his empty hand hovered over his chest but he smiled brightly. ‘What is it you said, Gimli?’ He clapped Gimli on the back, and grinned at Pippin. ‘Dwarves are for digging, you might say, and strong men for something even less useful, I can’t remember what.’ 

‘Running,’ supplied Pippin helpfully. ‘No, I think they were for digging and Elves were for running. Or was it swimming. I think Men must have been for running,’ he said looking doubtfully at Aragorn in his armour and heavy cloak. ‘And Elves for swimming. Aragorn would drown in all that.’

Aragorn felt he was losing control and opened his mouth to protest but Legolas waved his hand dismissively. ‘Perhaps it is only Dwarves and Elves who are useful. Hobbits of course are for the much nobler tasks, such as lore and wisdom and impossible tasks!’ He swept a bow to Pippin who bowed slightly back but the Hobbit was very flushed and directed a worried sidelong glance at Gimli. Gimli rolled his eyes and Aragorn felt like doing the same except he had no idea what anyone was talking about. 

‘But we Woodelves are made for this!’ Legolas continued. ‘Odds massively against us. Certain death and no reward? It’s what we’re good at!’ 

‘You are good for something then,’ Gimli muttered but Legolas pretended not to have heard. Instead he made a great show of fussing Arod once again, whose delight was loud and excited. Legolas laughed again and fed the horse the handful of oats he had swiped from the feed bin.

‘He should not be riding that horse,’ Gimli muttered to Pippin. ‘Should be going in the wagons with you.’ He looked sceptically at Legolas. ‘Look at the way he lists to one side.’ 

Pippin watched Legolas petting and fussing Arod for a moment. Then he said slowly, ‘I have never seen Legolas take chances that mean he would be a risk to anyone else though, Gimli. He’ll go in the wagon if he needs to, you’ll see.’

As they spoke, a groom led Aragorn’s own horse out of its stable. It was, Aragorn admitted, a magnificent, showy stallion. It tossed its head and champed at the silver bit in its mouth.

Legolas passed a quizzical eye over the horse and raised an eyebrow. ‘That is a horse and a half,’ he said and then added, with innocent concern, ‘Are you sure you can ride it? You are supposed to be their King you know.’

Aragorn stared in outrage and Pippin sniggered. He silenced the Hobbit with a glare. 

‘My lord?’ A herald approached, looking slightly bemused and wary. He was young and handsome and Legolas threw him a dazzling, flirtatious smile that nearly floored the young man. “Er...I ....that is...the host..is ready.’

Gimli rolled his eyes and chewed his beard. 

Aragorn suddenly realised there was a muted calm outside. The sound of fluttering banners could be heard and along with an occasional snort of a war horse or a great hoof scraping impatiently to be off. 

He took a breath and looked at his friends. They too realised the implications of the muted quiet outside and they looked at each other silently.

‘We are with you, Aragorn,’ said Legolas softly and he caught Aragorn in his long green stare and Aragorn suddenly felt how much trust they had in him. A warm hand clasped his arm and it was Gimli and Pippin’s face looked up at him smiling and awed. 

‘Well, this is it,’ Pippin said. ‘I never thought you looked much like a king as Strider but suddenly...Well, suddenly you have become one.’

Aragorn wished so hard for Halbarad that he could not bear it. Instead he searched against the blue sky for the sable banner of Arwen Evenstar that Halbarad would not let fall and he found it snapping and fluttering in the West wind, tangling with a flag of a green field and a white horse running.

Aragorn put his foot in the stirrup and swung himself up. The great charger tossed its long black mane and scraped its hoof along the cobbles, then Aragorn gave it slight push and it pranced and shook its head and clattered into the sunshine. He was blinded for a moment and then his sight adjusted.

Silver were the spears and helms of the assembled hosts, glinting and gleaming in the sunlight. The azure banner with white swans flew proudly beside the crimson and sable and gold of the knights of Gondor. He moved his great war horse to stand beside Eomer’s chestnut stallion, Firefoot, and looked at him. The young man’s face was still lined with grief but there was a steely determination in his brown eyes. The great King of the Mearas, Shadowfax came alongside him and Aragorn felt the air spark and crackle with Gandalf’s presence. Glancing around him, he saw Elladan further back and deep in conversation with Imrahil, the man’s noble face animated and flushed, Elladan his usual calm self. He could not see Elrohir anywhere.

Aragorn looked about him one more time, at the tall towers of Ecthelion, and its pennants that streamed in the wind, at the gleam of white stone in the sunshine, and he thought of Boromir. He looked steadily at the anxious faces of the Men who were left to defend the White City if they should fall. A silence had fallen and he paused. He was their King. He needed his words to be significant, memorable. He took a deep breath ready to speak.

And then voices from the mews floated clearly out over the assembled expectant crowd.

‘...by the time we have reached that wall bit around the city, what’s it called? The Urch-Ramma or something?- that horse will have dumped him... He’s a terrible rider, Gimli. I don’t know what they teach them in Imladris...’ 

‘Pah! You must think me wet behind the ears if you think will take that wager! Even I could ride his usual beast...nice and placid that one.’ 

At that moment, of course, the last Rohan horse emerged cheerfully from the stables, prancing and shaking its head like a colt. Not a single bit of tack was on him, even though they rode to war. Legolas gave Aragorn a cheeky wave, Gimli clutching at him fearfully and complaining loudly. 

He heard Gandalf tut irritably and a ripple of amusement threaded through the Rohirrim, for they loved Legolas and Gimli for their part in Helm’s Deep and the rescue of Theoden. He caught more than one glance aimed at Eomer, sitting tensely on Aragorn’s right.

Arod pranced and skittered and cantered sideways and finally shied into Shadowfax. Shadowfax, catching his rider’s irritation snorted and shook his head bad-temperedly and snapped at Arod with his teeth. Legolas said something quickly in his silvan dialect that had the great stallion putting its ears back and swishing his tail so Gandalf was nearly unseated. 

‘Fool of an Elf!’ Gandalf snapped as irritably as his horse. ‘Control that beast of yours.’ 

Legolas glared back impudently. 

Not a good start, thought Aragorn and clenched his teeth, ignoring the nervous glances around him. He felt Eomer’s leg brush against his as their horses jostled against each other and grimly, irritably, he gave up his attempt to speak to his assembled host and instead let his hand fall in the signal to march.

00ooo00o0o

 

So the Host of the West made its way down the cobbled streets of the White City and many watched their going with sorrow, for few believed they would return. They began the task of preparing for the final siege. But amongst the last to leave was the King’s halfling companion, for Pippin was to travel in the wagons with the supplies. 

‘Be careful, Pip,’ Merry said hugging Pippin for the last time.

‘And you, Merry.’ Pippin hugged him back, as hard as he dared and buried his face in Merry’s shoulder, thinking of the Shire, so far away now it hardly seemed real. But it is, he told himself. It is. And that is why I’m here. 

 

oo00oo 

Legolas scanned the rows and rows of marching men before and behind, sunlight glinting off steel, spears, armour, shields and helms. It seemed a multitude of banners and bright pennants streamed in the wind, but it was only seven thousand. Seven thousand to face all the hordes of Mordor. And some of these men from Lindir had never seen the twisted corruption of Sauron’s armies, the orcs and half men, the Uruks and trolls. In Minas Tirith itself they had never felt the Nazgul until recently. So ill prepared, he thought. It reminded him of the way he had heard Imladris describe the Last Alliance, how ill prepared were the Woodelves, how heavy their losses, how foolhardy their charge under his grandfather’s leadership. It was told differently in the forest of course. But this...this put all else that had gone before to shame. 

He felt the warmth of the Dwarf at his back, listened to the deep notes of his song, the creak of the Mountain, a deep note like a bronze bell, and was comforted. Looking across to Aragorn he caught a look from the copper-gold haired man who rode at Aragorn’s side, with brown eyes that made him puzzle over something he could not remember. Legolas smiled at him, but carefully as if he might break something fragile.

Beyond the city walls the camp was still full of those who would not march but waited to guard the city should they fall. Those Men came out to watch them pass, silently they raised their hands in salute as the seven thousand passed. Legolas turned his head to look at those left and wondered what they must feel, knowing that should this host not return, they too were doomed to defend a weakened city against the victorious might of the Enemy. He did not think he had the patience to wait, and he sent a quick prayer to Elbereth that Merry would be recovered enough to flee. 

Around them, the dreadful remnants of battle scarred the earth. The soil had been churned up and deeply rutted, soft, slippery mud in places where rubble had been piled to attempt to shore up the road. But it was rough marching and some of the time, men dismounted to let their horses have their ease and pick their way along the road across the battlefield.

Legolas found himself following suit, walking with Gimli beside the King of Rohan. Aragorn was talking to Gandalf. Frowning slightly, Legolas shaded his eyes with his long hand and gazed out across the Pelennor fields. He knew it had rained...but he could not think where he had been...and when he tried to, there was that silver-blue wall that slammed down before him, and a cold unease lodged in his chest. 

‘This is a grim start to a journey, my friend,’ observed Gimli. He slipped slightly on the wet mud and Legolas caught him. 

The charnel pits still smoked and the stench was overwhelming. They had to make their way around a broken cart wedged in the rubble, and there was a toppled siege engine that had not yet been cleared. Its broken timbers looked like some shipwreck in the mud, like there had been a storm and ships had been thrown up onto the mudflats. 

This was supposed to be Gondor’s garden, fertile farms and orchards. But Legolas could see not a single tree. It weighed him down and he felt the earth’s grief for the bounty that had been lost. He wanted to sing to it, but he could not find his voice...and that worried him more than anything for his had always been the gift of song, not only listening but singing.

His shoulders slumped sightly and his head dropped. He felt suddenly so weary of all this, the constant war, and he wondered if he would ever live to see peace. 

‘I cannot think Mordor itself can be any worse,’ the man walking near them spoke. His voice was low and deep and Legolas remembered liking it. He frowned again. He knew this man, the King, Eomer, and he knew he had to treat him kindly. But he could not remember why. 

Everything confused him. This strong warrior of Rohan with his copper-gold hair, the familiarity of Elessar, who was his friend, Aragorn. And the Dwarf whose strength and surety kept him earthed, centred, with his song of the mountain, like a bronze bell. Yet still he had not seen his warrior Rávëyon. He could sense him, feel the air vibrate with his presence, the power of him... He would search, scan the faces and see the long, sleek fall of black hair tied severely back, the sharp grey eyes sweep over him, the sculpted lips pressed together...and when he swung round to face Rävéyon, he was gone... his gaze slid off and around things...like he could not focus. And yet he felt the intensity of an elven gaze, so different from a Man’s gaze. He felt it linger on him but when he turned to look, he saw no one, just the ranks of marching men, or Aragorn, or Gandalf...

‘Do you need to stop for a moment?’ an earth-deep voice spoke behind him and he shook his head. ‘Whom do you seek?’ Gimli asked again and Legolas sighed.

‘I cannot find him, and yet I feel he is here.’

‘Is it this Rávëyon of whom you speak?’ Gimli sighed and Legolas tensed, feeling even more unsettled that Gimli didi not know who he was. The Dwarf edged closer to Legolas, pulling on his arm to slow him down a little. ‘Do you mean Eomer? Perhaps this is some ...pet name for him?’

‘Pet name?’ Legolas stopped and stared at Gimli. 

Gimli shrugged uncomfortably. ‘You know... you might have had...well, special names for each other.’

There was an awkward pause. ‘Special names?’ The Elf looked down at Gimli like he had two heads. What in all the darkest little places of Dwarfdom was he talking about? ‘Do you mean a secret name as you Khazad have?’ he asked, baffled over why he might call anyone by anything but their given name.

Gimli wriggled uncomfortably. ‘Well...’ Gimli hesitated and then said ambiguously. ‘You and he were ... close.’

Legolas paused, chewed his lip. ‘Close?’

‘Yes. Close.’ Gimli said impatiently, enough for Legolas to understand he was embarrassed and then with a start, he realised what ‘close’ meant to Dwarves. 

‘Do you mean I was...’

‘Yes,’ Gimli said quickly and nodding emphatically just in case Legolas actually said it.

‘Ah.’ He looked ahead uncertainly, rifling through his memories, searching for something to hang that word upon. Close. Did that explain those feelings that surfaced and surged around him? A memory flickered somewhere of a soft pelt of fur over a hard body, heavy musk and flesh. He half closed his eyes remembering and felt a burgeoning of desire. Yes, close, he thought luxuriously, bewildered. But where was Rávëyon? Had he been abandoned? He had thought Rávêyon had abandoned him before, he realised...on the cold Mountain, in the rain...

Legolas closed his eyes for the pain of that thought pierced him as surely as the wound on his chest...which felt cold, freezing, like a spear of ice had plunged through his heart, cut his heart out...

He reeled, suddenly a flash of memory; a flash of lightning lit up a silvery reptilian hide gleaming wetly in the rain ahead of him. Movement flashed in the lightning and then darkness.

He froze, eyes wide and staring. Lightning and thunder came together this time and they lit up a blunt, ugly head that swung round blindly and snapped its jaws.

‘Legolas? Legolas!’ 

He blinked. The image had gone and he could not grasp it for it skittered away. and further confused him. He closed his eyes and held his cool hand against his head for a moment. 

‘Legolas? Are you well? Ride in the wagon for a time, you are tired.’ Gimli urged, but Legolas shook his head mutely.

Gimli’s cry had attracted the attention of more than one, and quickly Eomer was by his side, reaching out and then holding back.

‘I heard you had been injured,’ Eomer said, his voice awkward and tight so Legolas thought the Dwarf was right; they had been close but he had hurt Eomer. The Elf bowed his head in regret and felt Gimli shift beside him. 

When Eomer looked at Legolas, his gaze was cool, full of hurt and longing. 

A sudden sharp pain in his chest took his breath away and everything but the pain fled. Legolas leaned against Arod briefly and took shallow breaths. 

‘That’s enough. I am going to find which is Pippin’s wagon and you will ride in that for a while at least,’ Gimli said decisively. Legolas did not protest. ‘Eomer, watch him for a moment while I find Pippin.’

Around them, other riders and soldiers simply flowed past them and onwards and Gimli plunged through them. Legolas found Eomer beside him, brown eyes full of concern and his strong arm around his shoulder. It was easy to lean against the man, smell the horse and rich grass clean scent, and the powerful heady song of the man filled him, of thundering hooves across wide open plains, high blue skies and the ring of steel....Legolas found himself smiling at a memory of a stone fortress in the aftermath of battle when the lust and desire were strong in his blood.

‘I remember you,’ he said in wonder. Then he laughed softly. ‘You punched me...’

Eomer pulled a wry face, embarrassed and looked away first before meeting the Elf’s eyes.

‘That was not all I did,’ he said with a challenge in his voice and Legolas laughed and then winced again. Eomer put his hand over Legolas’ where it rested against Arod’s coat. ‘And I would do again when you are well,’ he said quietly with an appeal in his voice that made Legolas wince. ‘I would still love you again...if you would let me,’ Eomer whispered, looking earnestly into Legolas’ eyes. 

Legolas sighed quietly, and his breath lifted the man’s hair slightly so that he looked up in sudden hope. But Legolas gently drew his hand away. ‘I am sorry, Eomer. The injury I had...I can remember very little. Only snatches and they make no sense to me yet. Of Rohan I recall nothing.’ 

As he drew his hand away however, he paused and frowned. ‘Nothing except...’ A memory slowly surfaced.

... of a small stone room, the crackling of twigs burning and the copper pelt that lightly furred the man’s skin, the Rohirrim’s childlike wonder as he traced the yäré-camé. A pile of sacks he threw down in one corner and hurriedly spread his cloak. He had pushed the man down, hands sweeping over the broad shoulders, his back and flanks like he was some prize and Eomer had not seemed to mind in the least that Legolas had held him in that fierce and uncompromising possession.

The hard coupling between them had been followed by gentleness and quiet. Legolas had lit a small fire with dry tinder in the storeroom's tiny hearth and leaned back on one elbow watching Eomer. In the firelight, his skin was warmed and flushed and Legolas had been explored in his turn, Eomer was fascinated by the markings inked onto the Elf's warm skin, on his arms and across one shoulder. 

'What are these?' Eomer had asked, finger tracing the green and gold ink runes on his wrists and thighs. The firelight had flickered, casting golden light on both of them.

'These are the emblems of my house,' Legolas had replied, tracing the oak leaf and runes. 'And these are remembrances and runes for protection.' He had indicated the swirling patterns and curlicue flourishes on his upper arms and that on one side, spilled across his shoulder and onto his chest. The wild colours seemed to merge and blur, almost into one shape and the dragon peering over his shoulder... but somehow he knew Eomer could not discern the dragon, and he smiled to himself that it was because the man had other things to think about.

The memory made him smile and unconsciously he leaned closer to Eomer, smelling the warm scents of horse and hay and the musk of the man himself...he breathed in and felt himself fill...

‘You have lost all memory of Rohan except what?’ Eomer asked hopefully, and there was such childlike expectation that Legolas almost smiled. He tilted his head slightly to regard the man. 

...And almost gasped at the intensity of the gaze he felt burning into him. The Song of Rávëyon burst over him like a wave, like a blow, and he almost reeled. He turned around suddenly to see him standing there, raven-black hair pulled tightly back from his strong and beautiful face, and the rage fading from his face and utter, utter sorrow instead. Legolas parted his lips and stepped forwards but Rávëyon stepped to one side and slipped from view. Vanished into the hordes of faces, amid the milling soldiers and wagons and horses. 

Legolas cried out in frustration and loss and lunged after him, confused and hurt. Pushing his way through the milling soldiers, he searched the crowd. A gleam of black hair turned out to be the tail of a horse flicking. A glint of mithril armour was only the sun on common steel. The swirl of a sable cloak was the banner of Elessar at rest, fluttering in the breeze that came up the river, from the West. Yet it carried a scent laid across it like silk...blue silk rippling...He blinked and slowly came to focus once more on Eomer’s concerned face. 

‘Legolas? You are not recovered,’ the man said urgently and gripped his arm. Legolas suddenly found himself reeling and unsteady and leaned against Eomer gratefully.

He wanted to speak but found he could not and felt himself sinking to the ground. 

‘Lean on me.’ He found Eomer’s strong arm around his waist and his other arm pulled across the man’s shoulder. ‘I do not understand why Aragorn let you come,’ Eomer said crossly and Legolas managed a weak laugh.

‘He did not want to, I confess. I tricked him into persuading me I had to follow him.’ 

Legolas found himself leaning into, against the man, and he was grateful of his support for his legs suddenly felt weak and his head spun in slow somersaults. It made him feel sick. He closed his eyes and sank against Eomer, wanting to sit on the flat earth, to make it stop. Eomer whipped off his cloak and wrapped it around Legolas, who found it strange that he was comforted by the warmth it still held from being around the man’s own body. It smelled of horses and the open air, that slightly steely scent of the wind as it blew across the steppe beneath the high blue sky...he listened and suddenly found himself wanting to push his hands through the copper gold hair and pull him down. But there was too, a sense that he had finished with this part. Confused, Legolas stumbled and was caught by Eomer. Turning his head, he looked at the man to find those brown eyes gazing at him with the same yearning he felt for Rávëyon. 

Legolas felt a pain in his head, sharp in the back of his neck and the silver-blue wall came down, but he felt it was flimsier, less opaque...dissipating. And he could almost... almost remember...His fingertips prickled and the hairs on his arms rose. Something high above and moving fast...A familiar sense of danger. He scanned the sky and thought he saw something high, high up, beyond where eagles fly. But it went beyond him and the sensation dulled... dulled but did not leave him entirely, just left him with a sense of unease.

‘Legolas!’ Gimli reappeared suddenly and squatted next to him, concerned. Legolas found himself on his feet, leaning towards Gimli, Eomer forgotten. 

‘We will ride for a while with Pippin.’ Gimli tugged his arm and Legolas let himself be pulled towards one of the ox-drawn wagons. 

A Hobbit he knew was leaning against the barrels stored in one of the wagons, he was eating an apple. But he could not remember his name and stared at him for a moment so the Hobbit slowly stopped eating, and said anxiously, ‘He’s gone again, Gimli. Look at his eyes. It’s like he’s asleep.’ 

And indeed, he drifted for a while, lost in his memories that began to shape, as if emerging from the mist...Then he felt the familiar warmth of the Dwarf and it centred him, earthed him once more. He lifted his head and let the wind stream through his long hair and he listened to the still, deep song of the Dwarf, like the ring of a heavy bronze bell beneath the mountain, and the ripple across the still silent pools beneath the earth like harp strings or the wind...

For the West wind teased his hair and the warmth of the sun stroked his face ... and there was a scent that made him want to follow the river downstream with the tide as it ebbed... 

From the wagon, Legolas watched the sky. Clouds streamed like torn banners of white on azure. And above him, suddenly, sunlight caught the wings of gulls and he remembered. The Sea.

Ah, the Sea. That was what had been teasing at him all this time... the sounds of the rush and ebb of the tide, the call home, home. He found himself turning like driftwood, and the silver-blue skien of silk that lay on the breeze wrapped itself round him and pulled him. The rocking of the wagon was like a ship with white sails that rushed over the waves towards the west, home... home...

oo000ooo

ROTK. Merry to Aragorn as the host leaves.

Next chapter: Osgiliath and Legolas catches up with Elrohir and feels much, much better.


	33. Osgiliath

Disclaimer: As always, not mine and no money made.

Beta: Anarithilen. 

Warnings: None for this chapter but explicit sex in the next chapter. 

 

Chapter 33 Osgiliath

The fallen town was like broken teeth, its once high towers and turrets crumbled and jagged. Huge chunks of masonry littered the fields and empty windows like eyes watched them as they passed within the useless walls. A cold wind swept from the East, and heavy clouds loomed over the mountains. But the men of Gondor had been busy since Pelennor. The walls swarmed with men passing rocks and piling them one upon another, re-building the walls, and Legolas could hear the sound of hammers and chisels, ropes creaked and wagons trundled back and forth near the river as they rebuilt the bridge.

Legolas helped Gimli slide down from Arod, and then dismounted himself. He noted the slight squeeze in his ribs, the coldness of the wound in his chest but he was determined not to show anything or Gimli would be straight off to Aragorn and insisting he remain behind in Osgiliath when the resumed their march. As it was, the Elf and Dwarf had remained behind in Osgiliath while the vanguard rode ahead to view Minas Morgul. Aragorn would not hear of Legolas going then, and strangely, Legolas had not felt like protesting in the least.

He need not have worried about showing any sign of injury, for Gimli stroked his beard and looked about critically. ‘This town is hardly worth rebuilding,’ he told Legolas, in barely disguised irritation. ‘Look! The very foundations are razed in some places. And surely it is more strategic to build further down river and hold the ford?’ He shook his head in disappointment at the vagaries of Men.

Legolas knew little about stonework but he trusted Gimli and if Gimli said it was hopeless, he believed it probably was. But still, he liked the Men’s determination to save their town...it reminded him of home and his father’s grim defence of the forest. But the very thought of home made him tremble and something in him threatened to break so he shied away and leaned against Arod for a moment. He listened to the horse’s steady heartbeat and stroked the long glossy neck. Arod turned his head back towards him and nudged him slightly. 

‘You must stop spoiling that beast, Legolas,’ said Gimli. ‘Let us find Pippin and get some food.’ But he patted Arod on the shoulder as he went past and he did not sound cross.

Legolas led Arod to the line of other Rohan horses and unlike the others, did not tether him but let him roam free. The horse immediately dropped his head to snuffle the meagre weeds and tufts of grass sticking up from the rubble. Nature survives all, thought Legolas and saw it as a sign of hope. 

He slowly followed Gimli towards the wagons where they would find Pippin. They had spent some of the day with Pippin in the wagon until Gimli complained it was even more uncomfortable than riding the wretched horse, and Legolas had felt confined and restless and wanted to ride anyway. Now as they worked their way back to the wagons, they moved between the small campfires that had sprung up, the makeshift tents, the groups of men. Some looked up at him as he passed and greeted him; others gaped in awe that one of the Firstborn walked out of the legends, but he felt a little vulnerable and thought he must be feeling the effect of the unusual wound. His hand stole up to rub it surreptitiously, hoping that Gimli did not see him.

They passed two masons, poring over a plan, one had a stick of chalk tucked behind his ear and both were coated lightly with stone dust. They looked up as the dwarf and elf passed them and one called out, ‘My lord? The Rohirrim call you Stone master...will you give us your wisdom?’

Gimli beamed with delight. ‘Ah! It would be my pleasure, masters. I see you have some plans there. Would you allow me to look...’ Gimli stuck his hands in his belt and bent over the plans with delighted interest. ‘Now, you are looking at this corner here...’ He stubbed his finger down at the map and then glanced up at a wall. 

Legolas sighed and leaned against the wall, watching the carpenters and masons, the wagons trundling past hauled by oxen, the soldiers putting up tents and building campfires, and he suddenly felt very alone without the Dwarf. He found himself looking anxiously up at the sky and rubbing his fingertips together, and he knew that was a warning but he could not remember what it warned him against. It faded gradually but he maintained a wary watchfulness. 

He felt like he had been in a dream and now was awakening. There was still much he could not remember, and sometimes it was like watching something seen through a silk screen, blue-silver, shadows and muted voices on the other side. If he could only dissolve the veil...He thought perhaps someone could tear through it if only they knew how. But somehow the violence of that frightened him, really frightened him, he who had felt fear but not been frightened for centuries now. But he did not need to do that right now, he thought. 

Gimli had walked over to a pit and was standing, talking animatedly with a growing group of men. He was going to be some time, Legolas knew so he stilled himself and leaned slightly into the wind; the horses huffed and breathed the same wind, let it tease through their manes. It lifted his hair and rippled the edges of his cloak, fluttered the banner that held the seven stars and the White Tree and he watched, thinking that so much was tied up in those simple signs, the heavy undertones of destiny, and it was not only Aragorn who had been wandering for so long. The Men of Numenor, the Dunedain, had returned to their birthright and some of the Men of Gondor looked upon them with awe and some with a little fear. The clear deep notes of their destiny drew them onwards.

But he looked for someone else who was not there. He searched the faces for grey eyes, long black hair pulled back from the stern, noble face. But he could not hear the song of eagles over pristine snow on high mountains and he knew then that Rávëyon was not here. Slowly he withdrew his attention and let the Song play beneath his awareness, no longer amplified by his attention but in the background, like air or warmth or shade. 

At last the group of men clustered around Gimli broke up, laughing and nodding as the Dwarf said something. Gimli looking pleased, waved his pipe towards Legolas and said something to the Men that made them laugh again briefly, but it was warm. Legolas looked up and caught the fond look on the Dwarf’s face as he approached and smiled. 

‘Do you feel they can be trusted to build without your supervision now?’ he asked lightly but not unkindly.

‘They are good Men and with a little direction, they will listen to the stone and let it tell them where to build now.’ Gimli absently stroked his beard and then his hand rested on the small pouch he carried next to his heart and Legolas knew that was where he kept the three strands of the Lady’s hair...And he blinked. He remembered. Gimli had not known how great a thing he had asked for and been granted where another greater smith had been refused.* At least, that was what he had been told by Haldir in Lothlorien, for in the Forest, they knew little of the Noldor and their tales. 

‘Now, where is Pippin? I am hungry and he will be where the food is.’ Gimli rubbed his hands together.

Slowly they made their way back to the wagon where Pippin was helping unload supplies. He was running between the wagon and the sergeant at arms, carrying messages to the mess tent and cook. Legolas watched him for a moment and remembered the merry Hobbit who had left Rivendell those many months ago. He had seemed so unsuited to the Quest then, too young, too protected from the bitter world beyond the green Shire.

Pippin caught sight of him and waved, his face breaking into a happy grin. ‘Hullo!’ he called and waved to them. His face was flushed and smiling and Legolas almost thought he would bounce on his toes. ‘How good it is to see you both!’ he called cheerfully, and dug his hands in to his pockets, feeling around, then triumphantly brought out two apples. Legolas smiled, for Pippin had not lost his exuberance or his delight in the small things, and for that, Legolas was immeasurably glad.

‘Have you been saving those for us, Pippin?’ Gimli asked, feigning astonishment.

‘I have!’ Pippin looked inordinately pleased with himself for his restraint. ‘Come and talk to me. Beregond says I have finished for the moment and he will call me when he is done talking things through with the company’s cook. It’s extraordinary how much organisation goes into an army on the march,’ he told them. ‘But I suppose you are to used to this and it is not at all extraordinary,’ he finished looking suddenly abashed. 

‘On the contrary,’ Legolas said lightly. ‘Elves do not organise themselves like this at all. We live off the land and the land provides. We have waybread - like lembas - and that sustains us. At least, we do in the Forest. So this,’ he waved is hand at the busy camp, ‘is as new to me as it is for you.’

Pippin smiled and looked relieved. He looked away for a moment and then back up at the elf. ‘Legolas, are you feeling better?’ he asked with concern.

‘I believe I am, thank you, Pippin. My shoulder barely hurts at all and my head only hurts if I try to remember.’ Legolas was aware of Gimli becoming very still and knew the Dwarf was listening intently. He wanted to sigh and quashed his irritation because he knew it was out of love that Gimli was his self-appointed guardian.

‘What are you trying to remember?’ Pippin persisted.

‘What happened. Where Rávëyon is. How did I end up injured.’ Legolas paused briefly, thinking and then said slowly, ‘It is such a blur to me, and when I try to remember something prevents me, and I am looking at shapes and figures through a veil...it...frustrates me.’

‘Well, only Elrohir knows what happened on the mountain,’ Pippin said helpfully.

‘Pippin!’ Gimli cried out and the Hobbit stared at him with a round oh.

Legolas barely noticed the Dwarf’s agitation. A stern and noble face crystalised in his mind then, with penetrating grey eyes and raven black hair pulled back severely...Rávëyon. Elrohir. Of course.

And suddenly he could see the tall figure, taller than the Dunedain, as tall as he was himself and strong, heavier set, with a swordsman’s strong, broad body, lean and hard, and the softness that shone in his grey eyes he had leaned over Legolas as he awoke, and said, ‘Beloved.’

‘Elrohir...’ Legolas said slowly, and then again, as if savouring the name. ‘Ah. I have been a fool. Of course.’ 

And now he remembered more clearly and the things that had swum around him, just beyond reach, just beyond sight, came back in crystal clarity. Rávëyon. Peredhel. Long black hair trailing over his shoulder, pulled severely back from the strong face. Full lips pressed together in concentration, and in concern when he awoke.

‘Rávëyon,’ he said with absolute certainty, absolute pleasure. 

‘Elrohir? Is that who you mean?’ Gimli demanded, watching Legolas with fierce possessiveness.

‘Yes.’ The relief overwhelmed him. 

‘I thought this Ravay-on was just some figment of your illness...Ah, I wish I had asked you more now,’ said Gimli penitently. ‘It would have saved us both much heartache.’

‘I am sorry, Gimli. I never thought to speak more. It was all so blurred and I have been confused.’ Legolas smiled at him gently for he was assured now. ‘I am going to find him now,’ he said resolutely

‘Well, you won’t find him here,’ said Gimli, folding his arms and standing firmly. 

Legolas stared for a moment. Was that why he could not find him? Had he left...or worse? He felt his shoulders slump and his heart fell. ‘Then where is he?’ he asked, trying to keep the desperation from his voice but he knew he had failed in that for Gimli looked at him with sudden concern.

‘He’s gone...’ Gimli said gently. ‘To Minas Morgul. With Aragorn and Gandalf.’

Legolas felt a surge of relief closely followed by fear. ‘Minas Morgul? He has gone there?’ And he felt the wound in his chest like ice and rubbed it with his hand. Gimli turned on him, fixed on him like a hawk.

‘Now don’t you fret,’ he said quickly. ‘Aragorn and Gandalf have gone too and they will all be back soon. That city has been abandoned the scouts say. If you want to see Elrohir when he returns, then you will.’ Gimli looked ready to tackle Elrohir himself and manhandle him all the way back to wherever Legolas himself was just so the Elf could see him. ‘But I don’t want anything like last time,’ he added warningly. 

Legolas looked at him carefully. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, the fighting and bickering and the nasty looks.’

‘Gimli!’ Pippin said warningly. ‘Gandalf said...’

Legolas looked straight over Pippin’s head at Gimli as if Pippin were not even there. ‘I do not think you can mean Elrohir...’ he said in astonishment, for Elrohir had called him beloved, and had leaned over him with a tender devotion.

‘Well, if you say so,’ Gimli said skeptically. ‘He did make it clear he wished to mend the bridges with you. He told me as much on the SeaSong. But even so, I am surprised he’s the one you have been looking for. Are you sure you don’t mean Elladan?’ Gimli asked but did not pause. ‘You got on better with him from the start. I suppose though, perhaps what happened later...’ he trailed off. 

Legolas frowned...Elladan...something had happened if only he could remember...his head began to hurt. 

‘Gimli! You are not supposed to tell him what happened,’ Pippin said again, more loudly.

‘And I did not, did I?’ demanded Gimli irritably but he looked anxiously at Legolas who rubbed his temples for the pain was intense now; the silver-blue veil had thinned and trembled now, and he thought he could discern shapes behind it, moving, gesticulating, and tangling together briefly. He remembered a body pressed up against his and long black silk tendrils of hair, trailing over his shoulders...

‘Why do you say this, Elvellon? There is no enmity between Elrohir and I,’ Legolas said softly, wincing and frowning against the pain. It felt hollow as he spoke, but he knew...Elrohir had declared himself as Legolas’ beloved. He must be Rávëyon, the one who had called him back, reached out to his very soul and touched him. Elladan’s name had sparked something but it could not compare.

‘Gandalf said not to tell him stuff,’ Pippin said warningly. ‘I did try to stop you.’ 

Gimli looked suddenly at Legolas and he looked torn. ‘I know that, but it causes him more distress when he does not know,’ he said. ‘Legolas? I do not want to distress you,’ he said anxiously and he moved to the Elf’s side and grasped his arm. 

‘He told us not to,’ Pippin insisted, shaking his head and watching as Gimli agonised. 

‘Please,’ Legolas pressed his hand against Gimli’s shoulder. ‘Tell me.’

‘I will only tell you about Elrohir though,’ said Gimli. He turned to Pippin pleadingly. ‘Look, you can see not knowing makes him worse!’ he protested. He turned to Legolas and patted his arm. He pressed Legolas lightly and nodded, indicating he should sit and Legolas was glad to do so. He had not realised how fragile was his recovery. 

‘You did nothing to deserve it though,’ Gimli began awkwardly. ‘Elrohir really didn’t like you at first, Legolas. It was his fault-you had done nothing.’ He looked down at Legolas defensively, a little angry still at the injustice towards his friend. ‘You and he argued at Linhir. It ended up with you both fighting, you drew your knife, he his sword, Aragorn was furious.’

‘Well, he would be,’ supplied Pippin helpfully, having given up trying to stop Gimli and thinking that at least it would be Gimli in trouble with Gandalf for a change as the Dwarf had started it. ‘How did that look to all his folk watching his friend and brother brawling on the quayside like a couple of drunken sailors,’ he added with an air of sanctity.

‘Pippin,’ Gimli glared at the Hobbit. ‘That does not help.’

‘I begin to remember that...’ said Legolas slowly. He had been walking on the grey stones of the quay...a tall figure, long black hair whipped by the wind, sable cloak pulled, flattened around him by the same wind, turning on him, nobility turned to savagery, the fire and antipathy of someone he admired and then hard, splitting blows upon his cheek, head, chest...knuckles burning and then pulling back...the scrape of steel and... the press of a heavy body above him. He gasped. They had drawn knives. How could that be? He remembered a long thin scar on his chest that was not this dreadful bloodless wound...

‘But he took you from me when you were injured, and brought you aboard the SeaSong,’ Gimli was saying.

Legolas blinked. ‘Injured? I was injured during the battle?’ 

He shook his head, bewildered, for the silver-blue veil wrapped him now, and he could not fight his way beyond it. There had been something else, something that distracted him...something that lingered even now, something in the wind, in the air. The longing had struck him in the pitch of battle, swept him down the river as it carved its way through Gondor...to the Sea...

He became aware of someone pulling on his arm and voices raised in concern. He blinked and came back slowly to himself, the grey sky, the army settling, a clank of pots, the crackling fires, and he looked upwards where the voices came from....Elvellon and the Hobbit... Pippin. He blinked again and looked at them in bewilderment.

‘...told you not to say anything!’ Pippin was saying reproachfully to Gimli.

Gimli did not reply but held onto Legolas, biting his lip in consternation. ‘How can we not tell him anything? It torments him not knowing...’ he agonised, holding Pippin’s gaze. ‘If I tell him about Elrohir, it might distract him from the you-know-what, comfort him.’ 

Legolas looked up and saw that Gimli’s fingers twisted in the ends of his beard. He frowned and remembered that the Dwarf chewed his beard when he was upset. That meant he was upset now.

 

‘It will comfort me,’ he said soothingly. ‘Tell me, please. Everything. From the beginning.’ He rested his long hand on Gimli’s strong shoulder until he felt the Dwarf sigh and he knew he would tell him then. Gimli settled himself down next to Legolas and drew out his pipe but Legolas found he did not mind.

‘Elrohir came with the Grey Company,’ Gimli began....and Legolas listened as the story unfolded and he found himself nodding. Yes... he remembered...the hostility and cold gaze from one he had admired as a young warrior, the icy remarks. And then the grey stones of the quayside at Linhir, where the Dead swirled and eddied like the grey Sea, reached and whispered their anger, their lust for blood of the living...The red hot fury of the elven warrior and the searing pain of steel slicing through skin and muscle...And then, quite suddenly he remembered he had heard them, the sharp keening on the wind, saw the white wings catch in the brief sunlight that broke through. Gulls flying inland, upriver. Legolas's own heart soared and plummeted at their call and at the touch of cold salt spray on his lips.... 

But Gimli had not finished and when he spoke of the elven warrior who had taken Legolas from him, and brought him aboard the SeaSong, Legolas did not see what Gimli described. It was not Elladan who had delivered him as Gimli believed. Instead he saw a ring with a dark gem flashing in the golden light…and he knew this was Rávëyon, who had called him with his crimson healing. Elrohir. Yes...Elrohir. And he had called him back again, this time under the cold starlight in the stone city, beneath the ruined city walls...

But the silver-blue veil drew across once again and he could only see distant figures, felt a prickling in his fingertips that he knew meant danger but could no longer even remember what that danger was although he had known it for all of his long life. He could not think on it for his mind skittered away from it, slid off it like it was ice, slipped off and into the next memory...Rávëyon had taken him to Aragorn’s tent where he had healed him, healed the scar that would not close until Rávëyon touched him...

Legolas pressed his fingers to his temples then, and frowned. There was something else...He remembered sprawling in a chair and Elrohir kneeling before him. He had humbled himself and had leaned towards him, chaste and repentant himself...and...and...Ai! 

Legolas covered his hot face with his hands and pressed his lips together in shame. He had leapt up and followed Eomer. Unthinking fool that he was! And had hurt them both: Eomer because he had stumbled upon Legolas with Elrohir and was yet raw from his bereavement, and Elrohir because Legolas had fled after the man when Elrohir had humbled himself, knelt before Legolas so chastely and offered to heal him. He was a thousand times a fool!

Not only a fool, but a careless one! On the night after the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, had he not lain in the tent on a cot too narrow and too short, restless and hot with embarrassment at his breathless arrogance? And had he not decided to keep himself under control? And instead he had immediately gone out and hurt one that he cared about, and one that he loved.

He paused and shook his head slowly at his crass stupidity, unaware of Gimli and Pippin’s concern, but knowing that more had happened now than he could remember. Knowing that he had felt this hot shame and guilt and that misery had followed...

He knew he had walked a narrow gravel path winding upwards into the mountains and the whortleberries and junipers had lined the narrow goat track leading up and up and up...and ahead of him strode the tall Peredhel, with long black hair pulled severely back from his stern, proud face. The grey eyes had been furious, hurt, angry and Legolas could do nothing to change it.

So. Now he remembered. It was his own foolishness that led to Rávëyon avoiding him. And who could blame him?

Yes, there was more but it still played out behind the silver-blue curtain and he knew there was pain and suffering there, knew he was not ready...and it was then he knew the veil was thinning and he did not want to see beyond it. There was a gap between his following Elrohir along the narrow track, and awakening in the Houses of Healing, where Elrohir had leaned over him and gently said ‘Beloved’. But this was enough for now.

Legolas turned. ‘I remember,’ he said and Gimli stared up at him in consternation.

‘You remember what though, my friend? It cannot be everything.’ Gimli did not say how he knew, but there was a great fear in his eyes. Legolas tilted his head to one side, enquiring, and because he knew Gimli and Pippin loved him, something very terrible must have happened up on the mountain.

‘There are some gaps that I think I can reach for if I wish to...But not yet I think. Perhaps there are things I cannot face just yet.’ And Gimli looked so relieved that for a moment Legolas was afraid. But he knew he had to find Rávëyon, Elrohir, and make things right with him. He had hurt him, and needed to somehow make things right again.

00oo00

Later, as night fell and the wind picked up to blow away any clouds that lingered, he left Gimli and Pippin snoozing gently and replete in the cook’s tent. Pippin had thoroughly ingratiated himself with the cooks. And with both the Dwarf and Elf being such famous warriors and friends of the Lord Peregrine, they had been thoroughly spoiled. Legolas had not eaten much however. He was nervous and excitement pooled in his belly. 

Now he walked purposefully between the campfires and tents to the edge of the camp, below the ruined walls of Osgiliath. He looked for a high place, a quiet place that might be sought by someone whose song was of eagles soaring over pristine snow. No longer would he search for Rávëyon, glimpsing a sable cloak here or arriving to see a tall figure disappear into a crowd. This time, it would be Rávëyon who came looking, and Legolas would be waiting for him.

Bright stars pricked the darkening sky one by one, and far away, in the distance along the road to the Morgul Vale, he heard the blowing breaths of the cantering horses, the jingle of harness and the flutter in the wind of the black banner that Halbarad had carried to his death and would not let fall. And with them, came Rávëyon.

Steadily he made his way through the ruins, listening to the song of the land and stones that made the city. He paused in the empty square of the town that had once been a marketplace and looked up to the towers that stood at each corner. He climbed the broken steps to a ruined tower, above the sleeping world of Men. Half the walls had been torn away by Orthanc fire and he paused to look up at the stars, growing brighter in the night sky. He climbed until he found himself at the top of the tower, and between the battlements. He looked over the town square. On the other side, the fires of the Host sparked and flickered against the ruined walls. The jagged edges of Osgiliath rose around him and slowly the stars scattered thickly across the sky. Darkness of night. Deeps of night. 

He slowed his breathing and listened. Listened to the sounds of the world; the camp had stirred at the return of their lords and there was the soft snuffling of the horses greeting each other, the muted clatter of sentries roused from their watch, their wakefulness and alertness. There were the Rohirrim horsemen who had gone with Aragorn, their song like the pounding of hooves on the wide plains, and the ring of steel and stirrup under the high blue sky, so wide, so far, only wisps of cloud high high above...And amongst them, closer, richer now, the Dunedain with their steady hearts, horse and rider, and the flutter of the banner in the wind that held the seven stars and the White tree. There were other songs too…the soft sough of wind-filled sails, and the breath of the Sea; Legolas shivered with a sudden joy and would have lingered there but for another...

Leaning into the wind, he listened most intently to the different songs that wound together, twined together inescapably...there was one that was moonlight on still pools, where the currents were deep and strong far beneath the still surface. And the other... the other was a crimson flood of passion and furious lust, a cry of eagles hunting high above the mountains, with the keen frost-laden air on the dark pines and the iron tang of blood on steel... Rávëyon.

Legolas’ heart leapt and then quietly, almost below the sounds of the world, he began the song that would bring Rávëyon to him.

oo000ooo

ROTK The Black Gate Opens.  
This refers to a tale in the Silmarillion where Feanor asks Galadriel for a strand of her hair. She refuses. It makes her gift to Gimli really rather beautiful I think.

Notes:  
The next chapter is written but this was getting to be so long and Anar felt it has a rather different character...which it does. Warnings for explicit sex. 

\-----------------------------------------


	34. Yôzâira

Author's Chapter Notes:  
Please read warnings. Explicit sex scene in this.

 

\-----------------------------------------

Disclaimer: No money, not mine. 

Beta: Anarithilen - you have her to thank for this really as I was going in another direction entirely!

Warnings: Slash, explicit sexual acts. Implied violence.

Chapter 34:Yôzâira

Elrohir felt restless and excited at the same time yet he could not account for it. He had turned Barakhir loose to graze and wander a little amongst the Rohan horses, noting that the horse ridden by Legolas now grazed near Eomer’s stallion. He dug his nails into the palms of his hands and determined that he would not think upon that. 

Instead, he returned to the tents and hesitated. Elladan had pointedly ignored him for the whole ride to Minas Morgul and he could not sleep there now. Aragorn had urged him to join him in his tent but Elrohir thought he would rather sleep under the stars tonight if he could sleep at all, for there was a strange excitement in his blood, it made him restless. He rubbed his fingers together against the confusion of sensations and made his way between the tents and campfires, intending to join a sentry duty, perhaps in the old town itself...there was something there, in the ruins of the town, that drew him. 

Perhaps it was the sight of Minas Ithil, now ruined and deserted, that had unsettled him so. When the vanguard had drawn rein at the entrance to the once fair valley, Elrohir had looked upon the city that had once been the splendour of Gondor, remembering it in its glory. How it had once sparkled and reached elegant towers above the great oaks and beech that gave it a lush coolness! The sweep of the curtain wall and arching bridge had seemed almost too delicate to hold and long, thin pennants had streamed in the wind, exaggerating the elegance of the architecture. Days long gone, vanished in the dust.

Now, an ominous silence lurked in the valley. The great beeches and oaks had gone. Instead the empty road slid between two huge plinths where enormous gargoyles rested. He felt all the hair on his body rise in horror. Surely they watched? Surely they would any moment, crack open one eye like a slit of fire and surely they would rise up, open their thin leathery wings and scream like the Nazguls’ steeds...

But the city was dark and lifeless; for the Orcs and lesser creatures of Mordor that had dwelt there had been destroyed in battle, and the Nazgul were yet abroad. Yet the air of the valley was heavy with fear and enmity. *

Elrohir had noticed his brother glance upwards, skimming along the cliffs and he realised there was a stair cut into the rock face. He shuddered. Both of them knew where that stair led; Cirith Ungol. The horror of it stayed with him even now, the clinging sticky ropes...Gandalf too stared at it and his face was filled with a desperate fear and hope. 

Sudden prescience had gripped him then and he saw, as in a dream, three small shadows slowly, unbearably slowly, climbing the thin steps up and up, into the Shelob’s Lair. The hair on his head rose in horror. Elrohir urged Barakhir towards Gandalf then, but Elladan was already there, hand stretched out and reaching for the Wizards’ sleeve. But Elladan’s cold hatred was like a shield around him and Elrohir could not approach.

As they had ridden back along the broken road, he had felt the dark touch like a slide of steel against his mind. He had looked up suddenly to see the black dot high above and moving fast. It had circled above them and he knew. Nazgul. 

‘They follow us,’ said a voice at his side. Gandalf. ‘Spying. Perhaps too, they believe they have spies amongst us. And who knows. Perhaps they do.’ 

Gandalf had glanced sideways and Elrohir had bristled at the implication. 

‘No. I do not mean that you will betray us, Elrondion,’ the Wizard had said softly, not a gentle softness. His words held a warning. ‘They do not trust you. But perhaps they believe you may yet keep faith with them?’ He kept his piercing blue eyes upon Elrohir’s and he would not look away either, met the Wizard’s searching eyes. ‘They believe you spoke the truth about the One, for it was also what they saw in Legolas’ mind as they broke him,’ Gandalf went on carefully. ‘You must be wary, Elrondion. Either they will want to kill you most of all, or they may try to tempt you further. Either way you are not safe...But none of us are.’ For a moment, Elrohir had glimpsed the brilliant presence of Olórin beneath the veneer that was Gandalf, but Elrohir was still unfazed, unimpressed. He had held Olórin’s gaze unblinking until the Wizard had sighed and said, ‘I believe you have made an enemy of the Nazgul indeed, killing their lieutenant. But Sauron is unlike his servants. He will seek you out I think. He will want your power. And I do not trust that sword of yours...it has betrayed its master before.’

Now back in Osgiliath, Elrohir paused thinking of the Wizard’s words. He knew that Gandalf had seen what it was that tempted him, the images of his dark lust for Legolas and violence, and that angered him. He tightened his grip about dark Aícanaro and strode angrily through the camp, between the tents and past small cooking fires. It had been Gandalf who pressed Legolas for information after the Nazgul had encountered him on the walls of Minas Tirith, and Gandalf had hurt Legolas in his interrogation. It was Gandalf who had sent them both up the mountain, knowing it would, should lead to the Woodelf’s death...Yet he dared question Elrohir? He dared imply that Elrohir might yet betray them all?

He passed the wagons that had rolled in with supplies and where he knew Pippin was, almost he thought, expected to see Legolas. But he had sworn to guard him from afar and so he swerved and went around the wagons, ducking between the ropes and tethers. As he did so, he paused in his thoughts, in his anger towards Gandalf. Ah, he recognised now   
that it was his guilt and anger speaking. For it was the Wizard who had truly brought them both back down the mountain. 

Elrohir paused and looked up. He knew something drew him here but did not quite know what brought him climbing the wide stone steps into the old town square so he nodded at the sentries as he passed. 

He paused beneath a broken stone arch and lay his hand on the cold stones for a moment and breathed in. The air was cold and burned his throat a little in the early Spring night. An owl called, swooped over him once, and he turned to watch its ghostly flight. 

He breathed in again. The scent of meadow grass drifted on the wind and he wondered at that for a moment and then turned into the wind, breathing in the fragrance, feeling a tug that drew him upwards. Trailing his fingers lightly against the cool stones, they snagged on a piece of cloth, torn from a green cloak such as the Rangers of Ithilien wore. He stared at it for a moment. A dark stain was on it and he thought it must be blood.

Shocked, Elrohir stepped back. Finding a solid wall at his back he leaned against it briefly. It was not the small piece of cloth that unnerved him, nor the dark stain upon it, but the sharp memory it evoked of a ranger telling the Nazgul of Frodo. And it was that which had led to Gandalf’s decision to send Legolas to the Nazgul, and that in turn, had led to Elrohir’s own ill-fated plan, stupid in its reasoning, clumsy in its execution, he told himself. And it had led inexorably to his betrayal of Legolas; he had summoned the Nazgul to where Legolas waited, and may as well have spread the Elf on the ground and offered them the morgul blade himself. Beyond any doubt, he was worse than any orc. He checked his own resolve that, if necessary, he would find atonement in his own death.

But one thing remained; he could never touch Legolas again. If he were truly resolved to offer himself as a sacrifice for those more worthy, he had to cut this tender new love away before it was too late. 

He let his head drop onto his chest in absolute misery and pressed himself back into the wall. Cold stones against his back, cold starlight above and all was silent. The land waited, listened. Behind him, the camp was quiet, a snuffle of horses, a clatter as a nervous sentry dropped his sword. A voice floated over the night time air, complaining, another answering, and then both faded away. 

And should Legolas find his way to Eomer’s tent? 

A thought insinuated itself, coiling around his misery...and he wondered for a moment. 

No, he told himself. If he found Legolas making his way to Eomer’s tent, he would allow it. But the jealous thought squeezed itself tightly around his heart then. He clenched his teeth and wondered how he could bear it. 

Pushing himself off from the wall, he strode swiftly through the empty courtyard. Men had been busy, he thought, for the bodies from the last assault on the town had been removed. An upturned cart was shoved against a wall and here an iron helm rusted in a dark corner unseen. He found narrow steep steps winding upwards to the parapet and unthinking, he climbed, two at a time, wanting to feel exhaustion, wanting his energy to leech from him into tiredness. He let his feet take him upwards where the air would be clearer, quieter.

But his fingertips prickled again and he found himself thinking of Legolas. Obsessing, he told himself angrily. He shook his head as if he could rid himself of the thoughts and glanced up at the darkness ahead. The steps led to a tower, the roof had been torn away, the stones uneven and jagged. He leapt up the steps, fingertips prickling, nerves jangling.

And should he find his way to Eomer’s tent? 

The thought had become a voice, slid like steel between his noble intentions, and uncovered things he kept locked away in his heart; a depraved image of Legolas sprawled, lost in desire, his head back and long hair sweeping down his back, the painted swirls and emblems on his skin...

It will be Eomer whose mouth will be on him this time, not yours... the quiet voice wormed its way through his denial. No. He shook his head free of those insidious thoughts and rubbed his hands on his thighs for he felt his skin prickle like a fine needle was drawn lightly across it.

No, he said again, and grasped the cold stone wall for support, leaned against it to cool him. The cold seeped through his clothes to his skin and he drew a breath. If Legolas sought Eomer then he would live with it. 

...But you fled before. 

Yes. He had fled twice. Once in Aragorn’s tent, and then again only hours before this when Legolas had stumbled and Eomer was there instantly. Elrohir felt again the jealous rage that flooded him so he thought he would kill the man...But he had resolved himself; the only way he could protect Legolas, Elrohir knew, was to watch him from afar. He would allow himself no comfort, no reward for his vigilance. 

And when he remembers your violent lust, how you called him whore? How you betrayed him? How you led him to his doom? 

Yes, he dreaded that moment, for it would come and soon. 

... Yôzâira

Yes...

And then, barely, he felt a breath of wind that came down from the mountains and carried the smell of snow. He paused, wondering if he heard an eagle cry, high above, and somewhere, deep within him, it resonated like someone had touched his heartstrings. His eyes half closed and he found himself turning towards the song, only half aware that it was this that had brought him here in the first place. 

...Beloved, he said. 

The other voice inside his thoughts hushed, crouched deep and waited.

Ahead of him a tower door hung on one hinge and above it, the tower itself was ruined, half the wall ripped away. He could see steps leading from one exposed floor to another. The stones were blackened. He had seen the power of Orthanc fire and was not surprised at the devastation. Winding his way upwards, he hardly knew that he traced the Song as it ran ahead, drawing him on like some siren through the ruined city, up towards the crumbled ramparts and the high tower that was silhouetted darkly against the night sky.

Above him the sky slowly darkened, and he paused on the ramparts to look out over the hundreds of tiny campfires scattered across the field where the host of the West slept. He could see the flickering where sentries walked slowly between the fires and heard the horses stamp and snuffle quietly in their sleep. 

He leaned his hands on the edge of the fortress wall and stared out at the mountains that edged Mordor. If he took the Gift of Men, he thought to himself, it would bring such relief. He could escape his immortal guilt, his useless longing for Legolas whom he did not deserve and who would not want him. He was no longer wanted by his brother...and who could blame him? 

Elrohir looked up at the stars and searched as he aways did, for his ancestor. A deep sigh came from his bones and flesh. He was tired. Tired of the long life, the guilt, the dreadful crimes and blood on his hands. He felt steeped in it.

He found himself ascending the narrow, broken steps of the tower, pulled onwards as if by some invisible thread, barely aware that he followed a light green-gold thread that wound its way between the ruin and destruction, beneath the sounds of the world, more innate than breath itself. It drew him upwards, winding through the ruined tower. He followed the Song that was deeper than the world, through the crumbling, empty chambers until he emerged under the night sky.

There was no moon and only starlight. The raw prickling that had nagged him all night was still there, in the background but now he felt his skin tingle like someone stroked him with love, and Elrohir realised he had not felt so loved since...since...And the song wound about him, twined about him softly, like the arms of a lover. Then Elrohir saw him, standing on the walls, looking down. Wind blew through his long pale hair so it streamed back and the strong, beautiful face gazed out towards the West as if his heart were there.

Legolas.

For a moment Elrohir hesitated, for the lost yearning in his sea-green eyes was too strong and it could not be for him. No. It must be the Sea. Almost Elrohir turned away- but first he breathed in. Ah, that was the scent, the song. His beloved; meadow-grass and deep pools beneath the shade of ancient trees, forest streams rushing over granite boulders, through ferny glades and oh, his heart sang. He heard the cry of eagles again in his heart. He filled himself with the scent, the song, and eased back, intending to leave.

But Legolas turned and caught him in the long green eyes that seemed to have absorbed all the colour of the Sea. His smile dazzled and blazed in Elrohir’s chest. And then stepping forwards and closer, Legolas tilted his head slightly to one side and, as if Elrohir were entirely expected, said, ‘Why have you been avoiding me?’

Elrohir opened his mouth as if to speak but could not and turned away instead, and looked down. Legolas stepped closer again. ‘You are avoiding me,’ he said steadily. ‘I do not know why.’

Elrohir set his teeth for Legolas was close now and he could feel his warmth, smell his scent. His long, wheat-pale hair drifted on the wind and his green eyes were steady, holding fast to Elrohir’s. He wanted him. He felt his length filling and lust pooled in his gut, in his loins. Legolas smiled with such tender devotion it took his breath.

‘Rávëyon,’ he said simply.

It humbled and aroused him

Legolas moved towards him, slowly and it struck Elrohir he approached like he would a wild animal that might bolt. ‘I am tired of searching for you,’ Legolas said, ‘and so I listened to your song, sang it with you, and brought you to me.’ 

He had reached Elrohir now and his hand brushed against Elrohir’s chest. Elrohir breathed in with difficulty, felt he would choke on the emotion that surged in his breast. He closed his eyes against the unbearable beauty of the Elf before him, green eyes, the pale hair like the sweep of sea grass on the pale beaches of Lebinnin. Ah, Elrohir sighed. He was beautiful. Perfect. Strong. Stronger perhaps than Elrohir for he remembered the fight at Linhir and was aroused by it, the struggle, the bang of blood in his veins, pulsing against the other Elf as they fought, the insolence and challenge. But there was no challenge or insolence now... Instead, there was a softness, hesitation, fear perhaps that still Elrohir might reject him...And Elrohir knew he should.

‘You should not be here.’ He spoke slowly, hesitantly himself. ‘You should not tempt me so,’ he said at last. 

Legolas smiled then, slowly and with an expression of deep love in his long green eyes, so tender that Elrohir could not bear it. He let his hair slide over his shoulder deliberately provocative, and leaned towards Elrohir.

Breath catching, Elrohir stepped away. ‘No,’ he said helplessly. 

Legolas smiled again, slow, so confident in his tenderness, and he reached for Elrohir, cupped his cheek.

‘You should go. You should not...’ the words stumbling from Elrohir’s mouth, were unconvincing.

Legolas was close now, so close he felt his warmth, he leaned in and his eyes were steady, holding Elrohir’s own gaze so he felt lost, utterly lost. Elrohir did not step away this time but he raised his hand helplessly, as if to ward Legolas away. 

‘Legolas...’ he said and the word was wonderful in his mouth, his tongue ran over the syllables like he was kissing him, slow and long and deep. He tried, struggled with his desire. ‘Please...you should...you should run from me.’ He swallowed. ‘I am so unworthy.’ 

But Legolas spoke again. ‘Rávëyon.’ And this time, Elrohir knew he could not resist. He felt the long hand slide through his hair and he shivered with unbearable pleasure, he felt his length fill and strain against his breeches at that one touch and his blood leapt. The fingers touched his face lightly, and traced his lips and Elrohir parted them willingly, breathing, sighing at the desire it aroused in him. 

‘It is I should plead with you,’ Legolas said and Elrohir did not know why he would think that. Legolas’ hand cupped his cheek and brought them together gently so when his lips were met with a warm mouth and Legolas licked his mouth gently, it sent a pounding rhythm through his blood. He was slowly, irresistibly pushed back against the wall and pinned, but it was a delightful pressure as the Elf leaned against him; hard, flat chest against his, thigh against thigh, the hard length pressing into his thigh, felt Legolas smile against his mouth.

‘Rávëyon, do not deny me this one small pleasure when we are on the brink of battle. How I have wasted our brief time together.’ And if it felt like a well worn phrase, if he knew it was something Legolas had said before, over and over in his seductions, Elrohir did not care. 

He wanted Legolas like nothing before. A primal instinct took over and he stopped thinking. Raw prickling flickered over his nerves and fired up in his belly, and he felt a stirring of the dark lust, but this time, Legolas had approached him, stared at him with predatory lust that matched his own and when he gripped the strong arms hard he found only curiosity and excitement in Legolas’ eyes. It enflamed him. 

Now suddenly it was Elrohir who flipped Legolas; it was Elrohir who leaned against Legolas, pressing him into the rock, and pushing his tongue as deeply as he could, wanting to fill, to plunge into the mouth that so willingly opened for him, sucked him in, tongue pushing back into his own mouth. Strong arms came up around him then and pulled him closer and he felt a swelling of wild lust at his strong, masculine beauty- the broad shoulders, lean hips. And around him, the blood banging in his ears changed and all he could hear was Song as it soared into the mountains over the pristine snow and he felt he was the eagle itself, hawkish eyes scanning the snow, hunting for the Elf who ran lightly over snow, watching him, hunting with him, joyously so Elrohir could stoop, plunge downwards, talons outstretched and raking into the Elf’s strong, powerful body, wrestle him to the ground and strip him bare. 

His fingers found their way between the laces and buttons and he fumbled like an inexperienced boy. He almost cursed in frustration when he felt Legolas smile against his mouth again and he expertly released Elrohir from every lace and button and his cloak slid and pooled at his feet, his shirt was shoved open and whipped over his head. 

Legolas unbuckled his sword more carefully though and rested it against the outer wall, a little way from them, as though he did not want to touch it and the belt loosely curled and seemed to slither down over the battlements. 

Elrohir’s skin prickled and nerves jangled and he thought the eagle screamed, a thin high pitched scream of a hawk hunting, but it sounded wrong somehow...but he could not think for now he felt the air against the skin of his thighs and blessedly he felt his shaft in the coolness of the air and it made it even hotter.

He kicked his clothes away and realised he was naked and Legolas still clothed. It put him in a different role with Legolas the predator. He grabbed Legolas’ tunic and shoved him hard against the rock again, pressing himself against him and when Legolas’ hands came up to help him, he felt enraged, engorged, furious, aroused. He knew what he wanted. He wanted Legolas sprawled beneath him in disgraceful abandon, wantonly subdued and Elrohir himself to be plunging into him. Suddenly bare skin rubbed against his own, caught almost uncomfortably, but the irritation served to enflame him more. He gripped Legolas hard and in a brutal passion. 

Legolas pushed Elrohir away briefly, and his lust flared. 

The Woodelf’s long hair lifted on the breeze and he caught it in his own hand, pulled it over one shoulder. With the other hand he unbuckled his own belt and cast it aside, holding Elrohir’s gaze. Elrohir could only stare, breathless as Legolas shrugged out of his tunic and threw it away from him, pulled his shirt over his head and cast it after this tunic. Then he sank on his knees before Elrohir, splayed his thighs wide and looked up, challenging in spite of his submissive position. 

Elrohir thought he had never seen anything so charged, so erotic as that strong warrior kneeling, yielding before him, and he wanted to keep the moment forever in anticipation, in yearning. Legolas’ nipples pebbled in the cold air and the wild painting on his skin, the dragon that slid over his shoulder peered up from beneath Legolas’ long hair, seemed to watch him slyly, knowingly. In spite of the cold air brushing his naked skin, Elrohir felt heat charging along his length and knew Legolas had only to touch him and he would explode. Legolas laughed teasingly and lifted a finger hovering just above Elrohir’s straining, desperate shaft. He looked up at Elrohir’s gasp, his long green eyes teasing, challenging.

‘Yield to me,’ said the Elf kneeling before him and it was incongruous. His finger, his hand hovered now so close Elrohir could feel the warmth of his skin, stroked the air above him. And in the teasing smile and the defiant gaze, Elrohir suddenly wanted to force him, to wrestle him down and plunge into him. Legolas licked his lips long and slow and Elrohir stared in fascination, his skin shivering, his cock bobbed in excitement and Legolas laughed again. ‘Yield,’ he repeated.

Elrohir looked down and a shudder rippled along his spine and his nerves jangled horribly. He thought he heard the eagle’s hunting cry and wanted to rake his talons into the Elf’s flesh and rend him in his lust. He lunged forwards and grabbed Legolas’ long hair, wrapped it round his fist and dragged the Elf’s head back so it was his turn to gasp.

‘No. It is you who will yield,’ Elrohir said and felt a rill of dark lust at the slight hesitation in Legolas’ eyes. ‘But I think that you will not.’ He realised his teeth were clenched hard together as he spoke. He had expected to think of Celebrián, the suffocating caves and stench of Orc...But he did not. There was only Legolas.

His hand tightened in Legolas’ hair and the Elf winced slightly and gasped, reaching up a hand as if in protest. With that small gesture of resistance, desire surged and flooded through Elrohir, a furious lust. Suddenly he pulled Legolas forwards and shoved him against his length and the Elf’s mouth opened with no hesitation now, seeming to acquiesce, and smiling, willingly, took him in his mouth. 

Immediately his hot mouth closed over Elrohir, he felt the charging, speeding, churning in his balls. Heat sped through him. He felt Legolas begin to pull away, no longer so compliant, but he held him fast by his hair and forced his mouth down hard. Legolas pulled his head back, tried to pull away again but Elrohir held him hard, hard over his exploding, pulsing shaft. Suddenly, Elrohir threw his head back and his body convulsed, jerked and a soaring ecstasy took him, wiped everything from his mind. Fist grinding Legolas’ head against him, he jerked and bucked in ecstasy, convulsed suddenly and went rigid, head thrown back and mouth open... violence and lust...and the liquid desire spurting from him.

His body shuddered in its final throws of orgasm and slowly, slowly, his fist unclenched and he felt Legolas pull away, but the long hair remained caught in Elrohir’s fingers and he stared, feeling strange dislocation.

Legolas was leaning away, spitting and wiping his mouth. The smell of Elrohir was everywhere and his hands with smeared and sticky. 

Elrohir did not move. 

Legolas turned then and looked up at him with a strange expression, almost, Elrohir thought with the one coherent part of his brain, ashamed. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes still dark with desire. ‘I should apologise,’ Legolas said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

Elrohir merely looked down on him, cold, colder than he expected somehow. He turned away slightly, feeling despair, feeling something slide through his thoughts, reptilian, repulsive and fascinating.

‘It is something I have never liked and I do not wish for you to be offended when I ...’ Legolas waved his hand towards where he had spat. He held up his other hand to be pulled to his feet, and when Elrohir made no move he let it drop back down, but disappointment crossed his face fleetingly.

‘No.’ Elrohir heard his voice as if from a long way away, and he forced himself to speak when he wanted instead to watch the darkness slide through him. ‘It is I who should....’ he faltered, as if reluctant to speak the words he felt he should. ‘I made you... I forced you to...’ He came to a halt, and struggled to focus on what was happening, to ignore the insistent pressure on his thoughts, muddling his words...He raised his hand to his eyes and rubbed them feeling strangely confused...And the pricking of his thumbs made him look up then.

Strange shaped clouds were scudding, blocking out the stars...like dark wings outstretched high above and moving fast, whirling, swirling around too high to be seen, to far to be felt surely...Slowly he thought they should be gone. 

A coldness spread through his limbs, made him heavy and slow. He felt for the weight of Aícanaro against his thigh and remembered his nakedness, that Legolas had carefully unbuckled him and set his sword aside. He wanted to hold the hilt, feel the weight in his hand but he could not move. 

The other Elf was brushing off his breeches, and Elrohir could see he was still aroused, could smell him. ‘You were carried away,’ Legolas was saying and Elrohir saw a stain on his breeches.

Ah, you were carried away then too. ‘I forced you,’ he heard himself repeat, his tongue clumsy in his mouth.

How is it you are so undone by this elf when you have starved yourself in contrition all these long years? Your Yôzâira. You deny your own violent nature. Do you think Death will be enough to purge you? Nothing will ever be enough.

The voice insinuated itself, coiled about him, twined about his guilt and horror. 

‘You did not force me. It was hardly rape!’ Legolas was laughing now, as if it meant nothing! 

Legolas began to scramble to his feet but Elrohir, almost unwilling, almost as if it were not he that moved, put his hot hand that smelled of sex on Legolas’ head, and stopped him. 

‘No. Not rape. For you were willing...But if you had not been?’ He felt the cold words in his mouth but they were not his words. As if another spoke through him. Cold seeped into his bones and there was the metallic taste in his mouth, like iron. A sensation like fine needles drawn over his skin. 

It had been easy to hold Legolas down, to force him, gagging, shoving himself blindly down his throat. And now Legolas remained where he had been pressed. He was subdued, thought Elrohir and brought his gaze back to the Woodelf before him, still kneeling, he knew he could have gone further, could have lost himself in violent lust - as he had almost once before. Images slowly insinuated into his thoughts...the darkness closed around him. Here was safe. No one would see what he might do... He recalled the moment he had pulled Legolas’ head back and forced him to pleasure him, the erotic charge, the power and he suddenly wanted more, to bury himself, to pound into Legolas’ body, to punish him, to take him, to...

But Legolas frowned slightly and shook his head free of Elrohir’s hand. ‘Why do we speak of rape? You could not do such a thing. I know.’ 

Elrohir let his head drop to his chest. He did not move, fought to be still. Darkness wound about his soul and like the dark clouds above him now that stretched out like wings to obliterate the stars, he felt slowly, slowly, overcome.

But Legolas, unaware of his dark thoughts, suddenly caught Elrohir’s other hand and kissed it. Elrohir stared at him, stunned. Looking up at him with laughing, warm eyes, Legolas leaned back on his hands, thighs still splayed, and said, ‘I wanted you. I want you still.’

Elrohir could see Legolas’ pupils dilated and excited, smelled the desire that charged the air. 

He reminded Elrohir of summer meadows and shady forests where the streams ran bubbling over slate and granite...and the darkness that had almost overwhelmed him, slunk down, flattened and hid. Elrohir stared. Believing himself freed then, he marvelled at the love he felt for Legolas that burst from him like a song. He let his hand that had held Legolas down, turn and stroke instead his long silk hair and Legolas rested his head against his hand with such trust 

‘I have satisfied you but you will not give me pleasure or release?’ Legolas asked, a teasing smile on his lips.

Elrohir stared at him; he saw the flushed cheekbones, the full mouth, warm. He imagined it around him as it had been only moments ago. The hard chest that had pressed against him and the strong arms that had pulled him in deeper. And he had come so close to... 

Elrohir closed his eyes, struggling but those wanton images sprawled across his dreams and he felt himself rise and swell and lust pooled in his groin again and he swelled and pulsed and wanted, oh, he wanted...

‘No!’ he said suddenly, discovering again his resolve. ‘You do not understand. I will destroy you.’ He pushed Legolas away and stepped back, hardening his heart. 

Legolas scrambled to his feet. His own desire, unspent, pressed against his breeches and he rubbed it unselfconsciously. ‘You flatter yourself, Noldor,’ he said but there was a fire in his eyes. 

‘No. You do not understand,’ Elrohir protested once again.

Legolas came close to him now, and Elrohir remembered, absurdly, that Glorfindel had always said the Elves of Mirkwood were more dangerous than the Noldor; it had seemed ridiculous then. Legolas was lithe and strong. He stood close to Elrohir now, so close his breath was warm on his cheek and he leaned in again but this time caught his hand on the back on Elrohir’s neck.

‘Why do you deny me?’ Legolas demanded and his face was close to Elrohir’s so he could see the shadows of his lashes against his cheek, feel the slide of muscle beneath his skin. Elrohir did not fight back, did not pull away. ‘A moment ago you were holding me down and now you deny me?’ Legolas caught Elrohir’s head in his hands and gazed at him for a moment. The long green eyes pierced him, struck him to his heart.

‘I...do not want you,’ Elrohir clenched his teeth and squeezed shut his eyes so he would not see the hurt.

There was a silence for a moment and all Elrohir could hear was the bang of blood in his veins, feel the swelling lust and crushing despair of his unworthiness. He waited for Legolas to throw him away.

Instead, a light laugh and Legolas ran his long, elegant hand through Elrohir’s hair. ‘Fool,’ he said tenderly as if he understood everything. ‘Of course you do. Feel how much you don’t want me.’ He brushed his hand against Elrohir’s erection and Elrohir heard himself groan. Then Legolas kissed him, hard, unyielding, passionate. His tongue pushed and swirled and penetrated Elrohir. 

Elrohir tried to raise his hands to push him off but Legolas quickly turned him so his face was pushed against the stone then. ‘You press me and then deny me. You take your pleasure and then resist? You deny only yourself.’ Elrohir felt a warm wet tongue trail along the side of his neck and to his round ear and he trembled, pressing himself hard against the stone wall...Legolas pushed his own arousal against Elrohir’s naked body, murmuring into his ear, he bit lightly the round tip of Elrohir’s ear as if fascinated. ‘Yield to me.’ And this time, Elrohir melted. He could no longer resist and if it meant that Legolas hated him forever, he would have anyway. 

‘Yôzâira.’ he said. Ah, the word eased between his lips unbidden, unwanted. 

And Legolas froze. Still pressed against Elrohir’s naked body. He did not move. Barely breathed.

‘You should have not called me that,’ he whispered. ‘That is not your word.’ 

Elrohir opened his eyes wide and felt the raw prickling that had never gone, only faded into the background under his desire. He felt the sneer and malice against his mind once more and knew they had been here all along, watching, waiting for him to fall...and he had.

‘They are here,’ Legolas whispered so quietly he barely heard. ‘They are here for you,’ Legolas’ voice broke a little. He felt Legolas ease back, shivering violently, stepping away from him then and stooping to the ground, reaching for his knives.

Elrohir looked about and saw where Legolas had so carefully rested Aícanaro. He heard their thin sneer, and a voice uncurled in his mind, inside him. 

....Fool! Only I understand you. How weak and starved you are. How unresisting. Look at you. You forced him. You will always force him. You cannot do anything else...Give into it. He wants you to. He did not run. He wanted more...Give into me...With me, all will be well...

Legolas stood with a long white knife in each hand, breathing hard and fast now but still did not raise his voice above the quietest whisper. ‘Rávëyon! My lord! They will devour you... Run! Run. I will stay and hold them...’ Legolas whirled round. His eyes were dilated and terrified and he elbowed Elrohir away.

‘Run! Go now! They come. They come but I will hold them!’

He shoved Elrohir hard, towards the steps that led back down from the walls. But a swoosh of air from huge leathery wings overhead and a thin scream pierced his ears. Elrohir stumbled back and fell hard against the stone ground, all the air was pushed from his lungs and he gasped helplessly.

From where he lay helpless, he saw Legolas leap lightly upon the crumbling wall and turn defiantly towards the Nazgul’s huge winged beast. Terror was in his eyes and Elrohir could see the barely repressed scream beginning to tear its way out of him. His long pale gold hair was caught in a sudden uprush of wind and the painted dragon on his naked torso seemed to writhe. ‘Come then foul ones! I will kill you all!’ Poised high on the crumbling wall, he brandished his knives and defied them, the scream that burst from him a challenge.

Suddenly, from the air above, a jagged-winged shape plunged past Elrohir and crashed against the wall, tearing stones from it as it swooped past. Just at the moment it plunged, Legolas leapt from one crumbling edge to another, and then paused tauntingly for a second upon a parapet. The creature screamed and wheeled beyond the ruined walls, its serrated wings spread wide like a huge bat. Its black shrouded rider raised a cold blade above its head, and from below were sudden cries. An alarm sounded, a horn splitting the night.

Elrohir struggled to his feet, still gasping, clutching his chest for all the breath had been knocked out of him in that fall. He stumbled to where Legolas had so carefully laid Aícanaro, and clutched at the sheath but the sword slid from his grasp, went slithering across the stone. Legolas was poised, shouting defiance upon the parapet. The Nazgul, clinging to the withers of the fell beast, raised its own cold blade and pointed it at the Elf. 

Instantly, Legolas clutched at his chest in agony, his shouted defiance turned to panting gasps and he folded over. The winged basilisk scythed its wings and tore through the air, opening its talons above Legolas. Elrohir cried out, stumbling forwards and Legolas looked up briefly, catching Elrohir’s breathless gaze as he was obscured from sight by the beast’s huge leathery wings that swept against the parapet. Loose stones crumbled and fell, and the thin parapet crumbled, crashed away into darkness. A rain of arrows shot through the air.

The creature screamed again and crashed headlong into the wall, skittering in its flight and sliding on the stone floor, crashing into the walls. It limped and held out its wing briefly, shaking its head. The Nazgul clinging to its withers raised its gauntlet and the creature lifted its head heavily and gathered its huge hindquarters beneath it and leapt into the sky. Its thin leathery wings flapped slowly and it listed slightly, climbing higher, spiraling like a hawk. Black blood hissed on the ground near Elrohir and he stared at it in horror. Then he looked about him for Legolas. There was no sign of him.

‘We are the Nine...’ a whisper trailed in the wind.   
tbc

ROTK. The Black Gate Opens.  
Yôzâira – gift of longing (a word used in the ancient tongue of Men who became the Nazgul)


	35. Penance

Disclaimer: blah blah

Beta: Fabulous Anarithilien

Special thanks too to Melusine for her help in this too when I needed to steer. 

 

Chapter 35: Penance

It burned where sharp steel had torn across the top of his scalp. He had been thrown headlong across the ramparts, sliding out of control across stone, grit scraping on his bare skin, slamming hard into the wall. He felt, or rather heard, the tiny bones in his ears rattle. A loud ringing started in his head and sparks of light exploded behind his eyes. His shoulder burned and felt odd and there was something heavy pounding towards him. The stones themselves were shaking. He reached out and groped for something to hold onto. Nothing but the gritty stone beneath him that was rolling round and round and he was somersaulting in space. But the stone was still beneath him...He felt small stones and grit scrape on his skin and glanced down. His only wore his breeches and boots, his breeches were unlaced, pulled open.

Elrohir looked about dizzily, and began to shake his head to clear the ringing in his ears but it started the spinning again and there was sticky wetness on his face. He groped about for Aícanaro but there was nothing. A huge shadow, the shape of a bat, obscured everything for a moment. A horrible screeching filled his head and he clapped his hands over his ears in horror for he knew that sound...but it was going away from him, fading.

He knew there was something he needed to do...He stumbled again and crashed to the stone floor. He lay for a moment, trying to breathe. There was something urgent and he could not rest...

But then he remembered. Legolas. 

He had been poised magnificently on the rampart wall, shouting his challenge to the Nazgul with the wind streaming his long hair back. And he fell. Or...or was he taken?

Elrohir struggled to his feet, lurching as he did so and slamming again into the wall. He felt his shoulder jolt unnaturally but he pushed away the pain and stumbled towards where he thought Legolas must be. The scream of the Nazgul faded away beyond the ramparts. He blinked dizzily and leaned against the wall for a moment. He couldn’t see anything. Dust clouded his sight, clogged his throat, scratched his eyes. His head pounded. He felt his breeches inexplicably loosened around him...His mind fumbled with that and he pulled them up around him. His hand groped uselessly for the hilt of Aícanaro but somewhere he remembered that Legolas had taken it from him, carefully, as if he did not want to touch the dark blade, and he would not have been the first.

‘Legolas!’

Hurling himself against the wall where Legolas had disappeared, Elrohir leaned as far as he could over the thin, crumbling edge. The walls of Osgiliath were pitted and cracked by the great war machines of Sauron, and where they had been sheer, there were now pits and ledges. He searched these now with forlorn hope. Perhaps Legolas had fallen, or leaped onto one of these ledges...a green-gold thread whispered across his blurred vision... 

And then he saw the gleam of pale gold hair lift in the wind. There! He lay almost obscured by stone dust, face down and one arm thrown out beyond the ledge and hanging mid-air.

‘Legolas!’ he cried again, desperately, his failing consciousness groping through the dust and cloud. He felt he would fall at any moment and fought with all his crimson, swirling energy, reaching out with everything in his soul for the green-gold thread that had led him here. 

It did not seem far to climb down.

Elrohir felt his face wet and did not know why ... perhaps it was raining.

‘Legolas,’ he called again, his head whirled and he felt dizzy. There was wetness on his face and down his sleeve where he had wiped his eyes. He wanted to lay his head on his arms and sleep but he had to reach Legolas first, or the Elf might fall, plunge from the narrow shelf. 

Elrohir swung his legs over the parapet and looked down. He felt the wall sway. Or perhaps it was he who swayed? He had no choice. It was not far to reach him surely? But the ground was far, far below and it spun dizzyingly. He was not sure if he saw Legolas move or if the wall was tilting beneath him but the Elf seemed to slowly curl in on himself.

‘Legolas!’ he called again. He thought he heard a moaning but he wasn’t sure if it was the blood banging in his head, or the ringing in his ears. Elrohir slid over the wall and perched on the other side of the battlements so his toes were clinging to the edge and his back was pressed against the wall. Looking down to where Legolas lay, he could see no hold, no easy way...and he wanted to close his eyes to stop the pounding in his head, and the way the world was rocking around him. If he could only reach...

He eased himself into a crouch, ignoring the wetness on his face that he thought must be rain. He clung with one hand to the battlements and with the other he reached down towards Legolas. 

‘Legolas!’ he cried and the Elf slowly lifted his head. Elrohir paused, waiting for the world to stop tilting and turning and watched as Legolas slowly curled deeper in on himself, his hands clutched his chest and he gave a low moan. 

Elrohir felt his heart leap. ‘Reach!’ he cried, putting all his longing and love into that one word, tried to push away the tearing pain in his shoulder as he reached down as far as he could. ‘Take my hand, Legolas! Reach!’ He pushed out all his swirling, crimson love to Legolas, wrapping him in tenderness and love. He, Elrohir, would stop the screaming, the anguish and pain. 

He stretched his hand down further, and dug the fingers of his other hand into the cracks of the stone, anchoring him to the parapet. Legolas raised his face to Elrohir and his eyes suddenly shone and then were lost in terror. He moved his mouth like he was shouting and his hands were raised towards Elrohir as if beseeching him but Elrohir could hear nothing and he reached, stretched further and further.

Suddenly his foot slipped from the narrow ledge and he felt himself lurch horribly forward, clinging to the ledge of the battlements by his fingertips and one foot in air. The ground was so very, very far and his head pounded and swirled...

He caught Legolas’ gaze below him, green eyes wide with terror, as he teetered and then he closed his eyes for he felt the narrow edge giving way and knew he would fall.

...Ah. Perhaps it was always to be thus. Penance. To be denied love he did not deserve...

His fingers grasped frantically at the cracks in the stone but it seemed time had slowed unbearably. Legolas was struggling to his feet, his mouth moved again and he seemed to be imploring Elrohir but Elrohir could only hear the bang of his heart in his chest.

The wind suddenly seemed to swirl about them, tugging his loosened hair and the ledge finally crumbled. He heard a cry behind him and thought it might be Elladan - he wished he could tell him he was sorry. It might even be a gift...to escape this dreadful, endless, immortal guilt, self-hatred. His fingers brushed something, someone warm just as he finally let go. He slipped from the ledge and the air, the stones went rushing past him.

A strong hand shot out and caught his arm as he fell. It slowed him down but his arm slipped horribly and then the strong hand grappled and caught on his wrist as he fell. He was jerked, smashed against the rock face. His shoulder, already injured, jolted and he screamed with the sudden agony, but he was no longer falling. His wrist was gripped, but slipping. He wrapped his strong fingers around the hand that gripped him and opened his eyes. Above him, face grim with determination and fear, was Legolas. He had caught Elrohir as he plummeted past. Legolas’ long hair swept around his lovely face and Elrohir knew, he would not let him fall. His mouth was moving but Elrohir could not hear what he said. Then there was a sudden tug and the Elf pulled with such strength.

An arm was thrown around Elrohir and with a tremendous heave, Legolas pulled him up onto the shallow ledge. Elrohir lay panting on the narrow shelf, still unable to hear anything. He felt hands on his face and looked up with unutterable relief. Legolas cradled his face in his hands and there were tears in his eyes and he was speaking. He stroked Elrohir’s black hair back from his face and kissed his eyes, his mouth, his cheeks, his hair. The world spun slowly for Elrohir and he was blinking. The wetness on his face was in his eyes and he could not see anymore. He felt his mouth move but no words came out. Yet he was suddenly so tired. He wanted to flood Legolas with his healing, to wrap his crimson love around Legolas’s thin green-gold light and weave it close. He tried to lift his own hands, to thread his own swirling crimson through and between the ribbons of light that poured from that dark wound in Legolas’ chest...but he felt that pounding in his body again... It was coming in spurts now and in between, he felt such weakness. 

Elrohir closed his eyes slowly and let himself sink. He leaned into Legolas’ arms because he could not lift himself and he thought this shallow ledge would crumble beneath their weight..Perhaps Legolas could be saved if he, Elrohir were not here...

...A grey veil came down over his eyes then, and he saw everything through a dull mist. In the distance, there was a shimmer of silver glass, and he thought he saw a gleam of white, as if a far off shore, and beyond, a far green country. But it was beyond him, and so far away now, and instead there were arms lifting him, and a green-gold light surrounded him and warmed him. There was the scent of meadow grass and summer, and the leafy coolness of the forest canopy. He heard his song, and his heart soared like the eagles. And now, he had his head against his beloved’s chest, he felt the warmth against his cheek and wanted nothing more than to sleep.

 

oo000oo

Elladan had thrown off the cloak he was using as a blanket for he still could not sleep. His mind turned over and over the argument he had had with Elrohir. How could he ever speak to him again let alone forgive him? No. He was finished with him.

But he kept returning to the words Gandalf had uttered to him in that moment at Minas Morgul. Elladan had raised that cold shield of hatred against his twin, made it impossible for him to approach. Gandalf had felt it of course, who couldn't? Even Aragorn had felt it.

After Elrohir had ridden away, head low in shame, Gandalf had leaned towards Elladan and said softly, 'Can you bear it? If one of you falls and you do not know the Way the other has chosen? If Elrohir falls and chooses the Way of Men? What will you tell them?' Elladan had refused to listen or even acknowledge the wizard, but now, as the night closed in and he felt the prickle of the Nazgul flying high above them, he thought about it again.

It was not the first time he had thought that Elrohir might choose the Way of Men. He had always said he understood Men better than Elladan, that he knew their hearts. But it was the first time he faced Elrohir's potential death unreconciled, knowing that Elrohir might yet choose a different path from him...And Elladan found that tore him more than the knowledge that he had stood and watched while their mother was raped.

Ah! How could he live with it? He lurched to his feet and drew his hands through his hair. He could not bear to speak to Elrohir. But he could not bear the thought he would never see him, not even should they both fall and he go to Mandos Halls and Elrohir go to wherever the fate of Men took him. He paced the tent in rising fury, fury at Elrohir for putting him in this predicament. 

But he had not forgotten either his mother's exhortation to forgive Elrohir either. She had known. She must have known too, somewhere, that this moment would come. 'You must bear your brother, forgive him, for he cannot forgive himself...' Not fair either to ask him that.

He needed air, cold, to help him think for his nerves were on edge. He looked up at the ramparts of the old town, the pocked walls where the town had been besieged by the foul engines of war. Elladan could see they had borne a hard assault from the forces of Mordor.

He knew instinctively, that Elrohir was up there on the high walls, amidst the rubble and ruin of the town, and in turmoil. He could feel the sweep of crimson, swirling restlessness. 

He peered up into the darkening sky, a faint sense of unease. He thought he heard Elrohir cry out but it could have been the wind...and he felt a brush of malice against his thoughts, and he wondered what might happen should Elrohir die on the battlefield. Would the place in his mother's heart be his then? And would the pale-haired Elf who so obsessed Elrohir be free for Elladan to pursue? He remembered a moment aboard the SeaSong, the slide of his shirt to the floor and Legolas drawing his hand through his long, cool silk hair, unconscious of how sensuous, how seductive that movement was, so it hung over one shoulder and Elladan could see the ironic smirk of the dragon painted on his skin.

He had been usurped by Elrohir, had he not? The Elf had been about to seduce him. But there had been Nestor's accident and the next time Elladan had seen Legolas, he had barely glanced at him, ignored both him and his brother. It was only later that he understood that Elrohir had attempted his own seduction of the Woodelf in Aragorn's tent. That had ended with Elrohir assaulting Legolas, he mused... calling him 'whore’, and he had almost strangled him. The violence of that assault should have terrified Legolas but it seemed only to make him miserable, blaming himself. Elladan found himself thinking without really knowing where it came from, that Legolas would be better off, happier, if Elrohir were no longer around...better for everyone in fact, if he were dead....

He stopped. 

He had found himself agreeing with a voice that seemed to be his and yet it was not...

Elladan stilled himself, reached into those cool, deep pools that were his strength. These were not his thoughts, he recognised. He had been led, and suddenly he looked up. There against the night sky, he could just discern the outstretched thin leathery wings that blotted out stars one by one and they winked back out as the winged reptile wheeled slowly overhead.

'Nazgul!’ he shouted. ‘Sound the alarm!' He ran back to his own tent and snatched up his bow and sword, buckling the sword belt with one hand and striding back out amongst the men. 

'Archers! Shoot at will!' he lapsed into command. 'There! It flies above the old town! Look where I shoot!' He strung his bow swiftly and sent an arrow straight up and towards the city walls. There was a cry from some of the archers as their keen sight followed it, and suddenly a hail of steel tore into the sky. It easily evaded their arrows and wheeled high.

'It's coming back!' shouted one man and Elladan tracked the creature's path carefully, took aim... It veered slightly however and his arrow yet again went wide.

'Where is Legolas?' he heard someone shouting. Gimli.

Even as he heard the cry he knew Elrohir was up there. He did not stop to think but ran into the old town, instinctively heading for the highest place, knowing that was where the Nazgul was headed. It slowly wheeled in the black sky above, skewing its course for the high ramparts.

Elladan pounded up the broken steps three, no, four at a time, desperate. He charged through the arches and broken doors and fled up the narrow steps to the tower, hearing the Nazgul scream, arrow already strung and ready. The huge wings unfolded, thin, leathery outstretched and slewed across the ramparts above him. Elladan fired upwards. One. Two. Three arrows in quick succession and the creature threw its head up and shrieked, slamming into the town’s ruined walls. It seemed to slide across the stones and crashed headlong into the battlements above Elladan, tearing huge chunks of masonry. A terrific rumble followed and dust rose up in a dense cloud and obscured everything.

He drew his pure, white sword and leaped up the steps to the next floor of the tower. Almost at the top now, he paused to draw another arrow and carefully aimed. The creature shrieked again but it was flying now, lurching into the air and he watched for a moment. It threw back its head in pain. 

Too far. It had flown across the top of the battlements now and he had yet another flight of steps to go. He let his hand fall back to his side, breathing heavily.

He paused for a moment and listened. At first he could hear nothing and then a choked cry came from above on the ramparts where the creature had crashed into the stone. Elrohir!

Elladan raced up the last flight of steps, bursting into the cold air, churned dust and rubble. The Nazgul’s distant scream faded in the night and the stars came out as if they had been hiding. He looked about him urgently and saw Elrohir sliding himself over the battlements and clinging to the other side. Elrohir teetered and eased himself into a crouch just as Elladan lunged forwards. With a cry Elladan threw himself across the wall, barely keeping his feet on the safe side, reaching, reaching but too late he saw Elrohir slip. Too late, his fingers brushed against Elrohir’s hand as he fell and his hand closed around air. 

Suddenly he jerked to a halt, one arm dangling and the other arm stretched upwards, screaming in pain. Elladan cried out. Had he caught something as he fell?

And then he saw it was Legolas, lying flat along a jutting ledge, arm outstretched and Aícanaro jammed into the rock and his other hand braced against it. 

‘Hold on, Legolas!’ he called. ‘Up here!’ he shouted down the steps, hearing the sounds of men below and knowing Aragorn would have sent others up after him.

He raced back to the wall and peered down. His foot kicked against something that clinked and slithered. Barely glancing down, he saw that it was Elrohir’s empty sword belt. He grasped it and wrapped the buckle around one hand and unbuckled his own belt with the other, unsheathing his own pure white sword and laying it hastily on the broken paving. He peered over the parapet again to see that Legolas was pulling Elrohir steadily up to the ledge. And then Legolas had clasped him in his arms and Elladan thought he could hear a song lift on the air, and he felt tears prick his eyes for it was a song he knew, Elrohir. He did not pause to wonder how he knew but called down to Legolas.

‘Hold onto the belt! It will keep you steady until I can get help!’ Elladan fumbled with the buckle of his own belt and threaded Elrohir’s through, until the two lengths were combined. He gave it a strong tug but both were made in Imladris and would not fail him now. He leaned over the parapet once more and looked down to where his brother clung to Legolas.

Legolas looked up at Elladan and the starlight shone in his eyes. For a moment, Elladan felt his heart swell and then falter. For the light in those long green eyes was for Elrohir. And, generous soul that Elladan was, he told himself to be glad for his brother.

He let the sword belt slide down over the wall. It was just long enough if Elladan stretched his arm. Legolas clasped it gratefully, and now he was cradling Elrohir’s face in his hand, stroking away the dirt and tears, and Elladan could hardly bear it. A low hum, deep sounds, below the sounds of the world came from Legolas and Elladan realised he was singing to Elrohir, soothing him, comforting him. It was only then that he realised both Elrohir and Legolas were half-naked. 

There was a sudden flurry of movement behind and to either side of him and many voices. Ropes were thrown over the wall and he heard a scrabbling and voices, encouraging and soothing. Elrohir was pulled up first and Elladan pulled him into a hard embrace, throwing his cloak around his brother to hide his nakedness from the Men who helped.

‘Forgive me, Elrohir. Forgive me,’ he found himself saying.

In no time, Legolas was there too and he leaned against them both, his breath in short, panicked gasps and his hands trembling, his arms embracing both brothers and with him came a low song that was below the sounds of the world. When Elladan felt the trembling in Legolas’ hands he snatched up Elrohir’s cloak from the broken paving and wrapped it tenderly around the Woodelf’s shoulders, but Legolas barely noticed for he gazed at Elrohir, enraptured.

oo0o0o

Elladan looked at Elrohir’s now sleeping form. It was strange to see his brother so peaceful, for Elrohir was all energy and swirling crimson restlessness. He had always loved him for that. Elladan found his face was wet and he brushed away the tears, shaking his head at his foolishness. How could he have let Elrohir despair? How close they had come to losing him forever? And how close had Elrohir been to accepting the Gift of Men?

He stroked his hand over Elrohir’s pale forehead, letting his coolness sink deep, his strength soak his restless brother in the cool blue pools, the still, bejeweled depths of deep green shade and dark shadows of midnight blue. And where the light shone, it brightened to turquoise. He let Elrohir sink deeper into that calm and stillness, willing him to heal, to soak in the quietness and peace. 

Legolas had left but a little while ago, satisfied that Elrohir was safe. Earlier he had sat, still wrapped in Elrohir’s cloak, pensively watching whilst Elladan cleaned the blood away from his brother’s still face, and finally closed the wound on his scalp. Then as they kept watch together, Elladan had witnessed the tender blaze of Legolas’ adoration. Elladan had felt humbled and envious and glad. He gave up his place and smiled at Legolas, moving aside for him. 

But he saw too, that the Elf was cold and his hands still trembled, whether from the exertion or the horror of the Nazgul, Elladan could not say. When Gimli came and finally took him away, Legolas did not protest. 

Now he was alone, Elladan smoothed his hand over his brother’s face and thought how close he had come to losing him.

‘He is still sleeping?’ Aragorn stood quietly in the entrance to the tent, his grey eyes softened with tiredness.

Elladan looked up, startled. ‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘It is no bad thing for now.’ 

‘The wound has stopped bleeding. That is good,’ Aragorn observed, looking down at Elrohir’s face, softened in sleep and less stern than when he was awake. ‘You should rest also.’

‘And so should you.’ He looked up at the man’s tired face. There were lines around his eyes. ‘You most of all, Estel. Sleep here. I will watch over both of you...’ he paused, wondering if he should say all. ‘I have almost lost one of you today through carelessness. It will make me happy.’

Aragorn sighed and gave in. ‘Then I will. It will be like old times when I was very young.’

‘You are still very young,’ Elladan said smiling. He seemed to be in the mood for sad reflection. All the Heirs of Isildur had been young, to him at least, and so soon departed. But Aragorn, Estel, was especially close to him. And he wanted nothing more now than to hold him close and let him sleep. He let a wave of blue peace wash over Aragorn, soothing and cooling his thoughts, settling him in quiet stillness.

He listened for a while to Aragorn’s steady breathing, slowing and slowing and settling into sleep. 

It was some time later that he realised Aragorn had awoken and watched him. He slid a sideways glance at him and raised an eyebrow in imitation of his father so that Aragorn laughed, as he always did.

‘You look nothing like him,’ Aragorn said, as he always did. Elladan smiled and went back to watching Elrohir’s soft breath.

‘You said you almost lost him through carelessness,’ Aragorn said softly. 

Elladan said nothing, but he pulled the covers up over Elrohir a little more. He had known Aragorn sought only to comfort him, but he could not speak of the trouble between himself and Elrohir to anyone, not even Aragorn. 

Aragorn shifted on his narrow cot, and put one arm behind his head. He had a way with him that rested lightly and encouraged confidence and confession. ‘And have you resolved your dispute?’ Aragorn asked, quietly persistent.

‘In almost losing him,’ Elladan said, returning his gaze to Elrohir, ‘I found him again.’ He thought, but did not say, And I have forgiven him as I should...I have forgiven him as I was bid.

Aragorn rummaged in his tunic and found his pipe, knowing that neither Elladan nor Elrohir had ever minded the smell of pipeweed. He lit his pipe. The gentle ptt ptt as he lit it soothed Elladan and a thin stream of grey smoke coiled in the air above the man. Then he settled his head more comfortably on his arm and smiled slightly. ‘Then I am glad. For I could not bear it if one of us had fallen and there still be this enmity between you. And we do not yet know the Way he has chosen...’ He was quiet for a moment and then added, so quietly that Elladan almost did not hear, ‘Or you.’

Elladan turned to face Aragorn fully then and met his concerned gaze. ‘I have always known, Estel. I have always walked the Ways of the Elves. There is so little of Men in me that Elros’ path is ...unthinkable. But Elrohir...’ He closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Elrohir has always been close to Men. He understood Elros. And he cannot bear to lose you...’ He did not say her name as well. He knew that would pierce Aragorn. Sometimes Elladan felt the Choice of the Peredhel was no gift at all but a curse to divide and cause unutterable sorrow.

‘I know... And Arwen... I am sorry.’ Aragorn was struggling to his feet but Elladan held his hand up, gesturing for him to stay. 

‘You must not be.’ So now they had to speak of it. ‘Arwen has always known. Not for nothing is she Luthien’s likeness. And not for nothing do you have Beren’s pure heart. I love you both. You are destined to be together. You would not wish that she had never loved? I would not wish that.’

‘I ask too much of her,’ Aragorn said quietly. ‘She will be forever parted from her family. Her father, mother...’

Elladan stilled himself. It was this that would hurt the most. 

‘When I think that Celebrian does not know of her daughter’s choice...that she will be waiting for her on the far shore of Eldamar...’ Aragorn lifted his head to look at Elladan. ‘How would she bear it should Elrohir also be taken from her?’

Elladan covered his eyes. He felt his heart would burst; he had almost let Elrohir go without telling him that Celebrían had forgiven him. He had almost let him make the Choice ... And they would have been parted unto the Ending of the World, Elrohir never knowing that their mother had forgiven him.

He dropped his gaze back down to Elrohir. He never looked peaceful, even in sleep. Always restless, fidgeting, murmuring ...but now he was still. Still like one dead. Elladan had an absolute compunction to shake him awake, to reassure himself that Elrohir lived still, that he was amongst the Elves...and he knew with absolute clarity, that Elrond had experienced the same prescience with Elros, but that Elros had not felt the same about Elrond. His knuckles were white as he gripped his brother’s hand and poured his cool strength into him, willing him to fight, to struggle up through the layers and clouds of sleep, of unconsciousness and to awake...

He became aware that Aragorn had risen and stood beside him, had drawn Elladan’s head to rest against his chest now in a gesture so unfamiliar and such a reversal it almost made him laugh. 

‘He is safe now, Elladan. If we came close to losing him and yet we did not, it is because he is supposed to be here. With us. Now.’ With a light tap on his head that Elladan always used to give Estel to tell him no more stories, go to sleep, he said, ‘Now you rest too. I need both of you with me and you have spent much of your energy healing. Will you not rest here alongside me?’ Elladan heard the smile in his voice as it changed to a chid’s wheedle. ‘I need a story with a happy ending.’

 

oo000oo

Not far from Elladan’s tent, Pippin sat near Legolas. Although he was wrapped in a thick sable cloak that Pippin thought must be Elrohir’s, the Elf was huddled close to the small fire, his hands trembling where he clasped the cloak tightly about him.

Upon seeing him, Gandalf had shucked his robes over one arm as if they got in the way and lowered himself to sit next to Legolas. He leaned close, looking at him intently and speaking in the Elf's tongue. Pippin could not understand many of the words and regarded the Wizard warily.

At one point Legolas looked away, but Gandalf put a finger under Legolas’ chin and pulled him back to look into his eyes. At first Legolas would not meet the Wizard’s kind gaze, but everyone had seen the way his hands had trembled and they were all concerned.

Pippin made himself small so he would not be sent away but Gimli patted him on the shoulder reassuringly. 

‘Look at him! Hands shaking and teeth chattering, hardly able to stand,’ the Dwarf muttered, tugging his beard anxiously. ‘But oh, he hasn’t been injured. No. He says to me, Gimli, all I have are cuts and scrapes...’ He turned his deep brown eyes onto the Hobbit and Pippin saw the warmth and concern there. ‘It’s not the cuts and scrapes I am worried about, it’s having met the Nazgul again. Is it going to bring everything back too soon?’ Gimli chewed the ends of his beard anxiously staring at Legolas’ pale face.

'What happened to him?’ Pippin turned to Gimli. He could not help but ask for no one had told him more than the barest details. Gimli looked grim, his usually kind eyes were serious and stern. ‘Did the Nazgul hurt him again?’ Pippin asked in a hushed voice. Gandalf glanced up and glared at Pippin but Legolas did not seem to have heard.

Gimli gave an exasperated snort. ‘He was knocked off the ramparts by the damned Nazgul, but managed to cling to a ledge. Mahal only knows how he did it! He had hold of Elrohir's sword too. Gandalf thinks that had something to do with how he survived the fall. Perhaps it slowed him down, or caught on something...'

He paused for a moment and then whispered to Pippin irritably, 'I do not yet understand how he came to be up there with Elrond's sons. And what I want to know is why was Legolas holding that sword? It is Elrohir’s. I hope they were not fighting again!’ 

Pippin glanced up at Gimli. He had a rather shrewd idea of what Legolas had been doing up there with one of the sons of Elrond. I do listen, Pippin thought to himself a little smugly. And although everyone else believed that he did not, actually he did. For example, he had worked out that for Legolas the name Rávëyon brought on a rather special look...one that Merry, had he seen it, would describe as his 'dreamy' face. Pippin thought the ‘dreamy’ face meant that Legolas had what Frodo would call ‘an infatuation.’ He and Merry would call it ‘a thing,' but whatever anyone called it, Pippin thought, it was absolutely about Elrohir. Of course, Pippin could not possibly suggest this to Gimli. The Dwarf would be horrified. Pippin chewed his lip and wondered what Merry would do in his place.

'Was it Elrohir or Elladan he was with?' he asked as a preliminary. He glanced across at Legolas again to see if he was listening, but the Elf’s head was bent towards Gandalf now, and he had half-closed his eyes like he did when he slept.

Gimli squinted at him slightly. 'Both.’

Pippin looked back at Legolas with a mixture of admiration and surprise. Both! Well, there was a surprise! He couldn’t wait to see Merry’s face when he told him that Legolas had a ‘thing’ for both Elrohir and Elladan! He tried to believe he would see Merry again.

'There now,' Gandalf said kindly, rising to his feet. Pippin heard his knees crack as he did and winced in sympathy. Gandalf patted Legolas on the shoulder and moved away. Legolas still had the rich sable cloak wrapped tightly around him and his hands clung to it as though it were a lifeline. And underneath it, he was half-naked, Pippin had seen that glimpse of skin beneath the cloak, those strange inked pictures and patterns that had fascinated Pippin in the early days of the Fellowship. Even Aragorn had not seen anything like it.

Gimli immediately went to him and sat down at his side in the place the Wizard had just vacated. He smoothed the cloak, pulling it closer about Legolas and generally just fussed. It said much that Legolas did not fidget or complain. He seemed to soak it up as if he were freezing cold and Gimli was a warm fire. Legolas murmured something that Pippin did not hear and Gimli said quietly, 'You are back with us, Legolas, and that is all that matters.’

Pippin stood then and reached over to give Legolas' hand a slight squeeze so he knew Pippin was there too.

Almost as if in response to that small gesture, Legolas blinked and turned his gaze towards Pippin. There was a strange look in his long green eyes, and Pippin stared. Most of the time Pippin thought of other members of the Fellowship almost as Hobbits. But every now and again, something would remind him of their difference... and Legolas, well he could be utterly alien. But at this moment the Elf looked so utterly helpless, not Hobbit-like, and not Elf-like either. It struck Pippin as both strange and heartbreaking. Legolas was saying something and Pippin leaned close to hear.

'I...I am sorry,' he finally made out and realised that Legolas' teeth chattered. Suddenly concerned, Pippin took off his own Lorien cloak and tucked it around Legolas’ feet. It seemed so long ago now that Legolas had flung his own cloak around a freezing Hobbit on far Caradhras and he remembered how it had still been warm from where Legolas had been wearing it. He hoped he could offer the same.

Gandalf smiled at Pippin.

'What's wrong, Gandalf? You are smiling at me and it makes me nervous. I think I prefer it when you are telling me off,' Pippin said. 

Gandalf was still smiling and when he placed his hand gently on Pippin’s head, Pippin caught a glimmer of how he truly was...a bright light, a presence. An indefinable warmth stole over him, like he was in the presence of some great kindness. Pippin suddenly felt overawed and he ducked his head.

'Hobbits are full of surprises,' Gandalf said approvingly but when Pippin looked up, it was only old Gandalf again and he was still smiling benignly down on him. Then Gandalf turned back to Legolas and said briskly, ‘Now what is this you are sorry about?’

‘I...I am...weak. Look at me...sh…shaking!’ He held out his hands for them to see. 

‘Yes. It’s a reaction to what you have been through,’ said Gandalf briskly. ‘But don’t start all that nonsense again, Thranduillion. It’s over and you are safe.’

‘I...I know. It’s just… my teeth... won’t stop... what they are doing...’ he chattered, looking horrified at what was happening. ‘What is...is... wrong with me?’

‘Your teeth are chattering, that’s all,’ Pippin said helpfully. ‘It’s what happens when you are very cold. Or sometimes in shock. I expect you are in shock,’ he said, soothingly. ‘I’m not in the least surprised. You had a Nazgul to face. It was a very brave thing to do.’

‘No,’ Legolas said. ‘I am a fool.’ He sounded so downhearted that Pippin scooted over to sit closer to him. 

‘No one thinks that,’ Pippin protested. ‘Everyone thinks you mighty courageous. What with fighting the Nazgul, and bringing down the Oliphant, and walking the Paths of the Dead with Aragorn and all. Why if it wasn’t for you, Gimli here...’

‘Wait.’ Legolas looked up, green eyes gleaming sharply. ‘I b...brought down the Oliphant?’

Gimli shuffled a little and looked around innocently. 

Pippin glanced at him. ‘Yes,’ said the Hobbit curious now. ‘Who did you think shot it?’ And if Pippin wasn’t mistaken, Gandalf gave a snort.

Legolas shot the Dwarf a keen look, his teeth still chattering. ‘Gimli told me he had k…killed it with a mighty b…blow of his axe.’ He said this last bit as if he were repeating the exact words spoken to him, thought Pippin.

‘Well, he may have slain one too,’ said Pippin hesitantly, wishing to be conciliatory but also recalling his own exaggerations. There was another snort from Gandalf and Pippin looked at him, astonished.

‘It is none of my doing or knowledge, Peregrine. I was not there,’ said the Wizard, holding up his hands. Pippin looked dubiously at Gimli; he had already heard some of what the Dwarf had told Legolas but it seemed as if Gimli had not simply exaggerated his own part, which in Pippin’s mind was perfectly acceptable, but he had downplayed Legolas’ part to that of the Dwarf’s sidekick! He didn’t think Legolas would take that for very long! He wished Merry were with him so they could enjoy it together.

And as if he had read Pippin's mind, Legolas said, ‘It is as though someone has taken advantage of my lapse to f...fill my head with nonsense of his own brave deeds and d...diminish any part I have played.’

‘Nonsense.’ Gimli drew out his pipe calmly and stuffed the bowl with pipeweed. ‘I merely told you a more accurate version than you remember. Even now I do not think you have recovered all of your memories.’ He puffed out his chest and struck his tinderbox. A flame flared up and settled. ‘Next you’ll be telling me it was your idea to shoot fire into the barrel of tar at Pelargir when that was clearly my idea.’ He puffed hard to light the pipe. 

Legolas turned on him and there was a hint of doubt in his eyes. Gimli blew a long stream of smoke into the air above him and leaned back, earth-brown eyes gleaming with pleasure. ‘The Oliphant?’ the Dwarf said casually waving his hand as if it were insignificant. ‘Well, I will give you that since your heart is so set upon it. But I am definitely in the lead for the number of orcs killed,’ he said and he blew out a large smoke ring as if to emphasize the fact.

‘I cannot tell if that is true, Gimli,’ Pippin said, feeling slightly indignant on Legolas’ behalf. ‘But Legolas has still killed a whole load of those fell beasts and that has to count as more than one orc.’ Pippin shuddered. ‘Anything that can bring the Nazgul closer is far worse than any orc.’ But upon saying this he noted how Legolas’s hands still trembled and he gave himself a mental smack. 

‘Ah! I am sorry, Legolas. I didn’t mean to remind you of them so soon,’ he blurted out sincerely. But the Elf’s trembling was no worse, and he had seemed quite himself a moment ago, Pippin realised. And then aloud he said, ‘But you seem to be all right this time. I thought you would start screaming again. That was dreadful last time, wasn’t it, Gimli?’ Pippin sort of heard himself from somewhere outside his own body and cringed inwardly thinking he couldn’t stop when he got nervous, talking on and on when he should just close his mouth and stop. ‘I don’t know what happened up on the mountain exactly but it must have been horrible because I have never seen you afraid even in Moria and ...’ 

Gimli put a warm hand over Pippin’s and patted him gently. ‘Enough now, Pip. Gandalf has said the memories are easier to bear now.’ He looked shrewdly at Legolas. ‘Isn’t that right now, lad?’

Legolas looked away and he bowed his head and Pippin wondered if that was the case. Legolas pulled at a loose thread on his sleeve, and Pippin thought his sleeve must surely be getting shorter for it was a habit the Elf had when he was upset. Then Legolas spoke quietly, ashamed. ‘Gimli was right in Minas Tirith when he said I should not come. If the Nazgul strike, I am afraid that I will turn tail and run as fast as I can. They have power over me that makes me weak.’ He swallowed as if the words were hard to speak. ‘I am afraid. Up on the ramparts… when it lifted its hand, I was back in that clearing, in the triangle of fire with the Enemy bearing down on me, tearing my skin from my flesh and my flesh from my bones...’ He paused and closed his eyes briefly. ‘But you inspire me, Pippin.’

Pippin’s mouth dropped open. ‘Me?’ he asked, mystified that Legolas might find something worthy in him, a simple and he knew, pesky Hobbit.

Legolas caught him in his green gaze and Pippin could not look away, thinking about the terror Legolas must have endured with the three Nazgul cutting him and then pursuing him down the mountain. How could he inspire a warrior like Legolas?

‘You endured the Eye in the Palantir and you do not scream like a maid who has seen a mouse,’ Legolas said with disgust at himself. But then he swallowed and lifted his chin as if pledging himself to the small Hobbit. ‘So I need you and Gimli close, Pippin, to remind me I am not in that place again, alone and friendless. You will help me remember that they can do nothing to me that I cannot endure. And that it is ...only pain.’ 

Pippin stared at Legolas, and he remembered the press of the Eye on him when he had looked into that dark, swirling, fiery glass. It had felt like he was stripped of everything and naked, all thoughts open to the Eye...Yes. It had hurt. ‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ he said a little bashfully. ‘But I like to think I can help,’ he said, pushing away his own shuddering fears. The Palantir was in the past and it could not hurt him anymore. The Hobbit tentatively squeezed Legolas’ hand again, and this time Legolas squeezed him gently back. 

 

tbc

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	36. Forgiveness

Please read first chapter for disclaimers etc.

Beta: Thank you as always to Anarithilien, and also to Melusine who gave me some advice too. Their encouragment and enthusiasm is always infectious and gets the Muse working.

Chapter 36: Forgiveness

21st-22nd March 3019.

This is the second day of the march from the cross-roads when they are ambushed. 'A strong force of Orcs and Easterlings attempted to take their leading companies in an ambush...But the Captains of the West were well warned by their scouts, skilled men from Henneth-Anun led by Mablung and so the ambush was itself trapped. For horsemen went wide about westward and came up on the flank of the enemy and from behind, and they were destroyed or driven east into the hills.' - ROTK

oo000oo00o0o0ooo

There should have been bright sunshine high in the sky when he awoke. He knew that the same way as all Elves knew it was day or night. But the sky was dark and clouds were heavy as they had been for what seemed like an age now. He was sore. His shoulder had that pain that was both dull and sharp and every time the wagon bounced over a stone or rut in the road, he winced. His head throbbed too - but it felt so much better than the last time he awoke that he knew it would not be long before he could leave the wagon and join the Host as he should.

Elrohir looked across the wagon at the barrels and chests of supplies that lined the inside and he felt almost shoved in there along with all the other baggage. Useless. An encumbrance and a liability. For wasn't that what he was now? The Nazgul scented his weakness as easily as a hound scents a fox. He had been unable to resist them and they had used Legolas to reach him, to tempt him into evil.

He would have covered his face with his hands if it didn't hurt so damned much! His arm was tightly bound against his chest anyway and he could not move it. He let his head fall back onto the pillow and closed his eyes against the throb of pain and shifted to try to get more comfortable with his shoulder bound as it was. He thought he would never sleep in the trundling, bouncing wagon...

oo00oo

Elrohir half-awoke later that day, jostled to consciousness by the lurching of the wagon as well as shouting. There were voices passing by his wagon and he knew them in his half-dreaming state. He heard the thudding of a cantering horse's hooves and the voices drew closer, alongside for a while, before they passed slowly out of earshot.

'We cut them off, my lord!' a clear voice spoke. It sounded elated, breathless as if the speaker had been running. Hoofbeats danced beneath the voice as if his horse were as exhilarated as the speaker. Dimly he recognized the speaker, and his heart stirred. 'It was as you said! We went wide about westward and came up on their flank to spring a trap on the ambush itself!'

Aragorn's voice spoke then, but softly, and Elrohir could not hear his reply.

Another voice rumbled, like the Earth. 'Aye. And it was as well we had my axe at your side, for otherwise that Orc would have had your pretty ears on a plate.' There was a merry laugh for all the world as if it were nothing more than a hunting trip. Elrohir felt his heart pound and he struggled up from sleep, limbs too heavy, tongue too thick in his mouth to call out.

'Orcs and Men,' came Legolas' voice again. Closer. Quieter now. He had drawn alongside. 'It does my heart no good to fight Men, Aragorn. Orcs I can kill, I can fight...but Men...'

'It is hard, I know. But they fight for Sauron, Legolas, and they will destroy everything we hold dear. They have no love for Elves you know...' The voices faded.

'No. Nor for your Dunedain folk either, I deem.'

The voices faded from his half-dreaming state and he barely registered when Elladan flung aside the wagon flap and peered in at him, gazed at him with troubled grey eyes before he too was called away by another voice.

oo000oo

He had no idea how much time had passed when next he awoke, but this time his thoughts were clearer and he gauged the half gloom of the wagon. It must be sunset. He shifted uncomfortably and at the same time the wagon lurched and he was thrown back onto his shoulder. Almost he cried out as it jarred his shoulder and bounced his head against the pallet bed. Better to be riding his sure-footed Barakhir than this, he thought, one armed or not. Gritting his teeth he rolled to the other side and swung his feet onto the wagon floor. He sat for a moment to let his head settle. A set of clothes were folded neatly on a nearby trunk, and on top, sheathed in its scabbard, was Aícanaro.

He stared. He had never expected to see the blade again and his hand immediately reached to the smooth hilt, feeling how it fit in his palm like it had been made for him. For Aícanaro had not been forged for him but had waited for him, waited for centuries in that dusty vault, and the sword sang to him, called to his Noldor blood even as had the Palantir. Blood called to blood and the warrior who had wielded the sword before him would know that Aícanaro would not sleep. He lifted the dark sword now and tested his shoulder by pulling Aícanaro part way from his sheath. The sword sang its low, thrumming note. It wanted to taste blood. Wait, Elrohir smiled grimly. Wait and you will have the iron taste, the black wetness of it on your tongue. You will drink deep of the old power, dark power that you crave. He felt its pleasure and carefully slid the sword back into its sheath and placed it on a nearby chest. Soon they would meet the old Enemy once more in battle. They had been reminded of Aícanaro's power now when they thought it long vanquished and they would quail in their hearts at the very thought of it. He felt impatient himself, ready to be quit of this lurching, trundling wagon.

He reached over and snagged the clean linen shirt that had been left folded neatly on a chest nearby. He had been left in his breeches, for which he was thankful. But he remembered wiping his face with the sleeve of his shirt on the ramparts and there had been a sticky wetness. He realised now it had been blood. He struggled with the shirt for a moment and succeeded in getting one arm in the sleeve and pulling it part way over his head. But he had to stop, defeated; his arm, bound across his chest, could not move without undoing the bandage. He recognised the particular tightness with which he was bound as Aragorn's work and he sighed. Aragorn had treated him, not Elladan then. He remembered Elladan holding him before he slid into darkness, but he did not think his twin would want anything more to do with him. He would never forget the moment Elladan realised just what Elrohir's terrible crime had been...

 

How can I forgive you?' Elladan had shoved Elrohir hard in the chest, pushing him away while hot tears spilled down his face.

'No. Do not forgive me.' Elrohir had torn at his own hair and moaned. 'I cannot forgive myself. Tell me what to do?' He had grasped at Elladan's tunic and stared at him with wild, desperate eyes. 'I will kill myself if you wish it! I will throw myself into battle! I will storm the gates themselves if it will undo what I have done!'

Elladan had stood staring at him. And then he had covered his face with his hands, unable to bear it any longer. 'Get out!' he had cried. 'Get out before I kill you myself!'

 

'What do you do?' a voice asked from outside, and as if conjured by his own thoughts, he saw that Elladan peered into the wagon from the pulled back drape. Elladan's own black steed, Baraghur followed, tail swishing and shaking his head. 'Get back into that cot,' Elladan said curtly.

Elrohir said nothing but he bowed his head. He did not want to face his brother. The words hung between them from the last time they spoke.

But Elladan did not leave. He walked behind the wagon and Elrohir could not meet his gaze.

'You are not ready,' said Elladan more softly than Elrohir expected. 'You have a head wound. You fell off a high wall. You dislocated your shoulder. Rest.'

Elrohir held the shirt in his free hand, looking down. 'It does not matter.'

Elladan said nothing for a moment. He kept walking steadily behind the wagon while Elrohir considered. It was awkward. This was his brother, his best friend, who knew everything...now at least, and who could not forgive him.

The wagon lurched and he suddenly fell forwards, throwing out his good arm to stop himself falling. Instantly Elladan was there, leaping up into the wagon, pulling him upright, and Elrohir pulled away crying aloud. 'No! Let me feel it! I deserve so much more than this. I deserve to suffer!'

Elrohir tensed, waiting for Elladan to agree, to shove him away, to scorch him with his contempt and hatred. But instead, Elladan remained still, standing above him and holding him steady. They swayed with the movement of the wagon and Elrohir found himself leaning against his brother.

Then, with unutterable gentleness, Elladan said quietly, 'Brother.' And in that one word was a world of forgiveness. A world of grief. Elrohir felt himself dissolve and clung to Elladan, pressing his face against him.

'Hush,' Elladan tentatively let his hand rest on Elrohir's head, almost reluctant.

'I know you cannot forgive me,' Elrohir said painfully, his fists clenched in his brother's cloak. 'I cannot forgive myself. I am not worth it.'

And then Elrohir felt Elladan breathe in deeply, and his hand stroked over Elrohir's head. 'Hush,' he said again. He felt Elladan still himself... felt the soft tide of Elladan's calm and peace lap at his own crimson swirling energy and turmoil. It suffused his own agitation, like a cooling breeze and he in turn became calm, still.

'No...I cannot forgive you just yet, brother.' Elladan spoke softly, and there was such sorrow in his voice. 'Please... give me time.' He paused and Elrohir pressed his face harder against his beautiful, beloved brother who had such generosity that he could even want to forgive Elrohir. Elladan took a deep breath. 'I have wronged you.' Elrohir looked up aghast, but Elladan did not pause. He did not look Elrohir in the eye either. 'For years I have not known to speak...But now I know I should have...I cannot forgive you, brother, not yet. But there is someone who has.'

Elrohir tensed. Elbereth! Whom had he told? Surely Elladan would not have confided in Aragorn? It was not for him to forgive, no trespass against Aragorn...And Elrond could not know...There was only one other who might know what had happened and she had sailed long, long years ago.

Elladan's hand paused on Elrohir's head and he felt it tighten slightly in grief. 'She...'

No! Not that! Elrohir reached up swiftly and put a finger on his brother's lips.

'Mother...' Elladan began, but stopped at Elrohir's distress.

'No. No...Do not speak!' It could not be. She could not have known...It was the one thing he clung to, the one sliver of hope for himself that she had not known that he stood by...

He fell against Elladan miserably. This was somehow worse than that dreadful confession in Minas Tirith. The realisation that yes, she did know, that she realised it was her beloved son who had stood there... but more...that she knew and forgave him... If ever Elladan had wanted to destroy his brother, he could not have found a more effective way than this: to tell him their mother forgave him when he could not forgive himself.

But Elladan drew another breath and pushed on, telling him all. 'She told me I must bear you, to forgive you, for you could not forgive yourself. I did not understand what she meant until now. And since you told me... told me what you did, I have thought about nothing else. But last night, with the prospect of losing you, as you clung to life by a thread, I knew I could bear you as she asked. I cannot forgive you yet, my brother... but I will. Give me time.' Elladan bent over Elrohir's head and held him close.

Elrohir felt his heart would burst with love for Elladan, and with hopelessness for himself. How did he deserve such love? Ah, he did not.

He grasped his brother's tunic, his cheeks felt wet. 'No. Do not. You cannot forgive me. I do not deserve it. Give me penance as I asked you before. Give me some task.' But he felt Elladan's arms creeping round him and he was pulled closer still.

'Oh my brother! All these years you have carried this dreadful secret. We have all ignored your fury and anger when we should have been healing you.' He heard Elladan sigh as if his heart would burst. 'Our father is the greatest healer Arda has ever known. But he is so locked in his own pain that he ignores your fury and bloodlust, shuts it out, simply explains it as revenge. And I, I who should know your soul as I know my own, never once have I questioned what you do, the weeks you ride alone or with men other than the Dunedain. I know what you do on those journeys alone, and the darkness that returns with you. But never once have I questioned the damage it does to your own soul.'

Neither of them noticed that the wagon had halted or the sound of the harness being unbuckled. Between them nothing else stood. They were outside time almost, and now they were beyond words. Elrohir felt his brother sink into his own deep inner peace and healing.

Then he said to Elrohir, no longer as a brother, nor as a son, but as a healer, in a low voice that would not be overheard even by another Elf, 'Tell me what happened. Tell me once again ...We were in the tunnels...'

And he found it hard, harder than anything he had ever done before, but he relived it again. The suffocating stench, the cries, the grunts of the Orc as he shoved into their mother... and he had stood by, dark Aícanaro in hand, lust drenching him as he watched and then cut the Orc's throat. He pulled back her head thinking her some half-orc and saw her blue eyes filled with tears and the thin hand clawing for the blade...and he wondered now if she recognised him then, what had she intended with that blade? Had she thought to cut her own throat or her son's before he could commit that ultimate sin? He could not bear either.

Later, Elladan smoothed his brother's hair and wiped his tears like he was a child. 'You did not rape our mother, Elrohir. You could have, should have ended her suffering sooner.' He took a breath like it was hard to speak. 'But you did not rape her. You have the baur-ûr in your blood... your mannish blood.' He hesitated when he spoke those forbidden words; the baur-ür so reviled in Imladris; the hot fire in the veins of need and lust, so loathed for its resonance, its reminder to the Noldor of the Oath, and the intemperate violence of Feanor and his sons, their slaughtering rampage and terrible lusts...Elrohir hung his head. It was true. And yet his gentle brother felt no such lusts or violent needs. It was just him who had that shameful desire.

And did he imagine that Elladan tightened his hold on him then, as if he were afraid that Elrohir would slip away, between his fingers, or vanish when his head was turned away?

'The fire-lust in your body afflicts Men in battle sometimes. But you fight it?' It was a question but Elladan did not pause, as if he were frightened to know the answer. 'There was that time, one winter...' Elladan's voice dropped even lower. 'You rode in from the Wilds alone. You had been gone for so long I thought you lost, that I should search for you. When you returned you had strange wounds on your body and you would not speak of it...'

Elrohir remembered. It had been a cold winter and he had run with men who were almost wolfsheads, outlaws. 'I was lost in a way,' he whispered in his shame. 'But you would not have found me...I rode with men who are not the Dunedain. I wanted to punish...all of creation. For...for what had been done to...her.'

'Not true.'

At the whiplash response, Elrohir cringed and hung his head. No. He was not forgiven. He was not being honest either.

'You wanted to punish yourself, for your unnatural lusts,' Elladan cried, hand tight on Elrohir's shoulder. 'For your guilt, for your crime, for your ...' he stopped, breathing hard.

'No. Not true,' he agreed with Elladan. He squeezed his eyes shut and welcomed the pain of Elladan's fingers digging into his shoulder. 'That is what I told everyone, myself...you, father...I wanted to die. I wanted to be killed, to purge myself of guilt, of the unnatural lusts. You have never felt the baur-ûr. It is so...unclean!'

'Those wounds...they were from no battle.' The fire of accusation was gone from Elladan's voice now, replaced by fear.

'No. I...'

'Did you invite such wounds? Did you seek to purge yourself of the baur-ûr?'

Elrohir could not speak. How could Elladan read his soul so easily after all these years of binding his secrets close and closer until he could no longer speak them, see them, even in the secret chambers of his heart?

'You cannot purge yourself of it, brother.' Elladan pulled his chin up so he had to look at him and there was such love and tender understanding in that look. 'It is in your mannish blood,' he repeated emphatically. 'And that you must embrace and therefore understand it, so that you do not lose yourself in it.'

Elrohir felt his brother slide his hands down to cup his face and pull his head to his shoulder. Elladan embraced him, pulled him close as he had not done for many, many years.

'I realised last night I could have lost the brother that I love more than breath itself,' Elladan murmured. 'And I find myself believing that I could have lost you until the breaking of the world, knowing for all my immortality that I kept in my heart our mother's words. That she forgave you and I did not tell you. That I did not know to tell you. How is it that we no longer know each other's heart?'

He shook his head and pressed his cheek against Elrohir's head. 'I could not bear it, brother. My fear is that you will seek escape from your guilt through the Gift of Men. Swear you will not leave me as Elros left our father.'

Elrohir felt the dampness on his face but he could not swear. The words he tried to form would not come.

 

00oo0oooo

 

The Host did not bother to set up camp and few tents were erected. Instead the small campfires sprang up again and Aragorn watched Elladan move Elrohir gently out of the wagon so he could sit with them under the night sky. He scrutinised Elladan as he gently settled their brother at the campfire. It was such a change from the previous day when they could barely look at each other and tension between them was like thin glass that might shatter at any moment. He was glad that had gone, but Elladan looked wrung out, stretched, and Aragorn felt the calm blue peace trembling like the wind on a pool.

Aragorn stretched out his long legs and leaned back on one elbow, watching the flames, a wary eye on his companions. He was glad he could settle back into Strider, for he had been Elessar the King Returned all day and he felt tired. The strain of expectation wore him down and he felt too the call of the Palantir. His eyes strayed to the satchel he had placed as if carelessly, close enough to touch should he wish it. But though his fingers twitched, he would not touch it, aware of elven eyes upon him. Aragorn threw a twig on the fire and then spooned up the broth that every man in the army ate. It was tastier than he expected. When he had finished he let the spoon clatter into the bowl and a man darted out, from nowhere it seemed, to retrieve it.

The man bowed low. 'Is there aught else I can bring you my lord?'

'No. Thank you. I have enough.' He nodded, smiling but really rather startled. The man seemed to melt away then. It had been like this since Pelennor. Everywhere men wished to be near him, leaping to do his bidding, watching him with wide-eyed amazement, or sometimes a calculating cynicism, for there were those who believed as Boromir had once. Gondor has no king. Gondor needs no king. He wished Boromir were here now, not for the first time, for the Steward's son was used to kingship even if he never would have been one. These men followed had Boromir, had always done. And his sword would be welcome.

'Doubts, little brother?' He looked up to see both sets of grey eyes upon him. He smiled and threw the twig he had been shredding into the flames.

'Too late for that,' he answered. He took out his pipe and pouch, rubbing the pipeweed between his fingers. Not much left, but it would not matter one way or the other now. And he sought one addiction to fight the urge to pull the obsidian globe towards him and reach into the flames within, to search for Frodo...he pushed away those thoughts for Gandalf had warned them to even think on It would be to court disaster.

Instead he lit his pipe and regarded his brothers quietly. Last night Gandalf had led a thought-scattered Legolas down from the old town after another terrifying encounter with the Nazgul. Elladan had followed with men carrying an unconscious Elrohir back to their tents and Aragorn had bound Elrohir's shoulder while Elladan hovered anxiously, cleaning the head wound and fretting. It was this, Aragorn believed, which had healed the rift between the brothers and he had never before had reason to be thankful to the Nazgul, but it had been a blessing in its way, and a warning only not a disaster. Since then, Aragorn had given an order that no one was to be on guard on their own or in a group fewer than four. Legolas had recovered more quickly than before, attended by Gandalf, and everyone was thankful for it. It was strange that the Nazgul had chosen to attack the Elves. And stranger still that two who seemed to dislike each other so should be up there together.

He puffed on his pipe and stared thoughtfully into the flames again. It must have been that both felt the Nazgul, and perhaps drawn by their unease, arrived at the same place. He imagined how annoyed they would have each been at the other's presence, the scathing remarks they might have made, cut short by the advent of the Nazgul. But both were warriors enough to put that to one side, he thought to himself. Indeed he hoped that since Legolas had in fact saved Elrohir, that they could now put aside their differences and come to some accord. It would be well for all of them. For Legolas had put aside his prejudice with Gimli, he could do the same for Elrohir surely?

He flicked his gaze to Elrohir, who sat quiet and brooding. He blinked slowly, and so Aragorn thought he must still be a little dazed. Elladan sat in silence too, his spoon rested in the bowl of uneaten broth as if he had forgotten it was there. Aragorn nudged him with his foot, and when Elladan looked at him he nodded at the bowl. 'Eat it, it is good,' he said. 'If you do not want it I know a Hobbit who will oblige.'

Elladan shook himself slightly and picked up his spoon and ate, but distractedly as though he did not really know what he did. Aragorn sighed and carefully blew a smoke ring. It hovered above him for a moment and dissipated in the cold air.

A tall figure obscured the light for a second and Aragorn looked up. The light flared behind the figure, made him a shadow limned in fire...it was a fleeting impression, quickly gone when the Elf sat down beside Aragorn, between him and his brothers. Quietly Legolas stretched out his long legs, crossed casually at the ankle and leaned back on one elbow. The firelight cast a glow upon the faces of the brethren opposite Aragorn and he frowned. Elrohir looked up briefly and a flicker of such hunger passed his eyes that Aragorn stared. Surely that was not it? Elrohir was renowned for his chastity, and for scorning matters of the heart, and bed. Did he desire Legolas? He had not known Elrohir ever to be interested in anyone, maid or man. He had always been so resolved to revenge their mother's torment it seemed he had no room left in his heart for softer pursuits.

Aragorn glanced sideways at the Woodelf who was stretched langorously beside him, seeming for all the world as if he had been there all along. Still he said nothing but Aragorn knew him well enough now after all those months in the wilds, to see that every line of him fairly thrummed with tension. Was that the way of it then?

Aragorn pulled on his pipe and let out a long stream of thin smoke into the air. He looked back into the flames once again and pondered, thinking back to that fight at Linhir and the resentment in Elrohir every time Legolas appeared or was mentioned. It made more sense now, for the Noldor's Laws and Customs* did not speak well of love between two men. Unlike the Silvans who accepted anything, Aragorn thought, puffing quietly. More dangerous and less wise indeed. He became aware of the silence that stretched between all four of them, each sunk in his own thoughts. He watched Legolas surreptitiously. But Elrohir would not look up now and Legolas merely sat quietly by.

'You seemed not much troubled by any injury today,' he observed to Legolas.

The Elf glanced at him, amusement gleamed in his green eyes. 'The Dwarf was on his own two feet before the foe and I did not have him whinging at my neck. I have bested him again.' He laughed, a clear, merry laugh and it seemed to Aragorn that at the sound, Elrohir seemed to settle more deeply into his own gloom.

'It was but a feint,' said Aragorn, flicking his gaze at Elrohir and then back to Legolas, whose smooth face seemed unruffled and unconcerned. 'And its chief purpose, I deem, was rather to draw us on by a false guess of our Enemy's weakness than to do us much hurt, yet.' **

'Or even to test to see if yet you have tried the Ring...' Legolas said softly for even though they spoke in the Grey Tongue amongst themselves, one could not know if there were spies amongst them.

No one said anything then and Aragorn quietly observed the tension between the three elves stretch taut though to anyone else it would seem these strong, powerful warriors were entirely at ease. The fire crackled companionably and he puffed again on his pipe, sending smoke into the cold air above them, watching it separate into long, thin streams, to circle and entwine about each other, to merge into one again and dissipate in the darkness. He noticed Legolas rub his fingertips together and glance up into the sky once or twice so he knew the Nazgul watched even now sending fear into the hearts of the Men.

When the Elf rubbed his hand over his heart though, Elrohir moved. He shifted to his knees and leaned over, awkwardly for his shoulder and arm were bound, and placed his free hand over the dreadful bloodless wound. He did not speak but closed his eyes slightly and Aragorn knew he bathed Legolas in his crimson healing warmth. Legolas' head bowed and he dipped his gaze to Elrohir's hand, seeming unsurprised, accepting the sudden intrusion. The firelight gilded his hair and cast the shadows of his lashes on his smooth cheek.

Aragorn caught the look on Elrohir's face, and was startled for he had never seen such tenderness. It was fleeting and Elrohir turned away, back to the fire as if nothing had happened, but Legolas lifted his gaze and stared.

Aragorn pretended his pipe had gone out and busied himself with striking a light and held it again to the bowl, puffing mercilessly until it alit once more. He tried not to grin. And he tried not to worry for Elrohir, whose heart had never been given. When he glanced at Elladan, he saw a reflection of his own concern in the grey eyes, but he dropped his gaze back to the fire, feeling he had intruded on some private moment.

After a while, Legolas rose to his feet, no trace of stiffness or hurt from the events of the night before. 'I bid you a good night, Aragorn. I will be on watch, should you need me, by the fall of rocks. At least until midnight, and then I will sleep near the supply wagons. That is where Pippin and Gimli have decided I am safest.' There was an ironic tone to the last. Aragorn looked up, amused in his turn although he did not show it.

'Very well, Legolas.' he said wryly. 'It is helpful to know where my friends are.'

Legolas gave him one of those alarmingly dazzling smiles then and Aragorn quirked an eyebrow. It was not for him, he knew now and slid a sidelong glance to Elrohir. He was not disappointed; Elrohir stared after the Elf as if he could burn up the darkness. Aragorn chewed the end of his pipe thoughtfully and resolved then that he must ask Gimli what was going on. There was no point in asking Pippin; he never had any idea what was happening. And Gandalf wouldn't tell even if he knew. No, the dwarf was the best person to speak to.

It was some time later, probably some time after midnight, Aragorn thought smugly to himself, that Elrohir rose to his feet, stiffly. He had been thoughtful and brooding all night but even more so once Legolas had left them, seeming to sink deeply into thought. Now as he stood, he winced and settled his arm into the sling Elladan had insisted upon. 'I will ride tomorrow,' he told them. His gait was stiff and showed that he was still bruised, but he moved his arm experimentally. 'It will be more comfortable than that wagon.'

Aragorn glanced at Elladan but his brother made no sign. Both knew that Elrohir was skilled enough to not take a risk and stubborn enough to refuse their advice should they give it.

''Or I will walk,' he continued. He looked down on them both and his grey eyes were opaque and forbidding. 'I am going to check on Barakhir,' he said unnecessarily and turned away, steering a clear path between the small groups of men, and both his brothers watched him critically.

'How long has that been going on?' he asked Elladan.

Elladan glanced up at Aragorn. He sighed and looked back into the fire. Flames reflected in his eyes and Aragorn thought briefly of the flames of Oroduin. 'I do not know if he goes to his salvation or doom, but either way I fear he will take the Gift of Men.'

And although it was not the answer Aragorn had expected, he did not speak again but turned instead to watch Elrohir disappear between the campfires.

00000o0o0oo0o

Even after he had stood watch near the stand of rocks, Legolas still felt warmth from where Elrohir had reached out to him and he brushed his fingers over the place Elrohir had touched. Ah, I am worse than a lovesick maid! he grinned to himself. Well, it was for Elrohir to make the next move now.

It had been a quiet watch. Although he had felt the Nazgul circling above, they had made no move upon him either in his mind or his body. He could not suppress a shudder for he felt the stroke of their malice, and he was not the only one, for the sentries he watched with had shuddered too and looked upwards.

'You feel it too, my lord?' asked one man. His pale skin and grey eyes marked him as one of the Dunedain but Legolas did not recognise him. Then he recalled what Aragorn had told him earlier, that many of the Rangers of Gondor had descended from the men who had lived in Ithilien before it was overrun. He felt a wave of sadness, for the land had been fair.

He spoke softly. 'Yes. They have been following us since the ambush, such as it was.' He tightened his quiver about his chest as if it could ward away the sense of dread. 'Evil taints the land here as it does in my homeland and the very earth itself groans under its defilement. It must grieve you as much as I to see your homeland so befouled by the Enemy.'

'Aye. Though the King has returned and we have kept faith. We will stand when all others have fallen,' the man said and his companions agreed quietly. 'It does our hearts good to know that the Fair Folk stand with us also. Does not war march upon your own land, my lord?'

Legolas looked away North and smelled rain on the wind. 'Aye, it does,' he said softer even than the men. He hoped the rain fell in the forest too, and that if there were flames, it would quench them. 'But my folk have fought the Shadow for many ages of Men. And now we too will stand firm with the King and the good people of Ithilien. For we also hope our lands to be restored.'

oo000ooo0o

The stars had wheeled in the sky above but none in the Host could see their cold bright fire for the heavy clouds rolled from the Mountains and hung low. An occasional flash of lightning stabbed from the mountains now and then, and a low rumble of thunder followed. Midnight passed and other Men came to relieve Legolas' companions of their watch.

Quickly he made his way back to the supply wagons where Pippin and Gimli slept. Their huddled shapes comforted him but Gimli was not snoring so Legolas prodded him with his toe. The Dwarf rolled onto his back, his mouth falling open slightly, and there came the gentle snuffling that signaled his move into deeper slumber.

Pippin seemed to snuggle in more deeply to his blanket, pulling it up over his ears and making a little contented sound.

Picking up a piece of wood that was too good, too fine for firewood, Legolas took out his long knife from his boot. He began whittling, humming an old lullaby his father used to sing him in faraway Greenwood, while Gimli's snores settled to a low, deep rumble, like a song of the earth.

It was much the same as in the early days of the Fellowship, he thought wistfully, blowing shavings away from the wood. Never did he think he would be nostalgic for such a time of danger and dread. But the Sea had not rushed through his veins then, and there had been companionable times, and Boromir had been alive. And Frodo and Sam safe with them...or safer than they were now, he thought sadly.

Quickly he pushed away those thoughts. The Nazgul were still circling above, casting their nets wide to snag on thoughts of the One. Although they had not joined the skirmish earlier, he had seen them far up, wheeling overhead and spying. He felt a shudder run through him at the thought of Them, and felt his hands shake a little. The Nazgul were indeed terrible. More terrible than he had ever dreamed. They would hunt him down and devour him.

He put down the knife and piece of wood, clasping one hand in the other to stop the trembling. Gritting his teeth he resisted the urge to put his hand over his heart, over the cold and dreadful wound, reminding himself that Pippin had never quailed or faltered, even when he was terrified. Neither should he, he told himself sternly; think of something else...It seemed that warmth seemed to steal through him then, a remnant from Elrohir's touch, like a caress. And in truth, there was only one thing he wanted to think about, and that was Elrohir.

He had not been able to keep away earlier, for he felt Elrohir's presence nearby. There was still a nervous excitement in his belly and groin and the image of Elrohir in ecstasy made him hard. Why did Elrohir resist him so resolutely, he wondered, and would not yield? He dwelt on the image of Elrohir, head thrown back, hand fisted in his own long pale hair and forcing Legolas' mouth over him...He drew a deep breath. Never had he felt so aroused. And he felt aroused now merely thinking about it. But he could not steal off on his own now after Aragorn's decree, although he could slide beneath his blankets, he supposed. He hoped instead that Elrohir would come to him. After all, the invitation had been clear enough that even Aragorn had heard it!

Shaking his head at his own obviousness and fancy, he picked up the knife and wood once again and carefully carved. A curved beak emerged from the wood, a proud hooked head, hooked feet, a weapon indeed...

He rubbed his eyes with the back of his wrist. Rarely had he felt such desire as he felt for the son of Elrond. And rarely did he pursue such unwilling prey. This felt different. He carved the bird's keen sharp eye and thought he should colour it grey, like the granite crags, or the changeable Sea. It was not as though he had never been in love before, he mused, blowing away fine wood dust. It was not as though he did not know the feelings of elation and despair that hit in almost stunning regularity, for he was still counted young among his folk, and, as he had been told so frequently by his father and teasing older brothers, falling in love was a habit of the young. No, he thought. This was ...different. He looked critically at the emerging head and the still crudely cut wings. Holding the wood at a different angle, he began to cut away what would become the outstretched talons.

Elrohir had been as much a distraction to him as he to Elrohir, he thought. He had not understood that before. On the SeaSong, it had simply been as it always was with him; he felt desire. He pursued. His prize either gave in, or not, and he went elsewhere. But this time it had become too complicated. And he had been careless too of Eomer, and that was unlike Legolas. He shook his head at himself once again. He had made assumptions about the young Man that were based on Elvish experience. Fool. He wondered how many more times he would have cause to call himself fool before all this was done.

The eagle was emerging as if it fought its way out of the wood, beak agape, eyes fierce and talons now outstretched. He looked at it critically and thought of the cry it should make, fierce and cold and high up in the lonely mountains. He changed the angle in which he held the knife so the very tip dug into the wood now and he narrowed his eyes.

As he carved, his mind drifted to the night after the Battle of the Pelennor. He recognised now that Elrohir had been poised on the brink of more than desire in Aragorn's tent. Perhaps it was even love. Real love, not simply infatuation. And that was why he had been so violent the next day. Legolas remembered that now. In the first hours of his memory's return, he had been horrified at that scene that played again - of Elrohir's violence against him, the arm across his throat and the violence of his words. Whore, Elrohir had said and there was spittle on his own cheek where he had turned away in shame.

He whittled for a moment stuck on that thought, recalling the detail of the line of laundry that hung in tatters from the tall tenements above and around them, the narrow balconies, and the upturned cart. Elladan had been there too and tried to stop Elrohir. He had not been able to breathe... Even now he shrank away at the humiliation of it, the way Elrohir had offered him to Elladan. But now he wondered if he deserved the approbation, if not the violence. He had been as careless of Elrohir as he had of Eomer that night, impetuous and thoughtless, with no regard for the consequence...

And now he found he did not want to move beyond that memory, for he drew close to the memories that disturbed him the most. He did not want to think about them, for it was after this that Elrohir had led him into the mountains, like a sacrifice, at Gandalf's behest.

But up there, he shook his head and frowned, squinted at the eagle, blew the dust from it once again...Up there, it had become confused...

For a moment he stared at the wings that began to emerge and he put down the wooden carving. It was too much like the wings of the Nazgul's steed as it slithered over the soaked ground after him, gleaming wet in the rain. Its black rider had been striding down the slopes between the wet and dripping pine trees, darkness clinging like shadows, and Legolas' own breath had struggled, he had been gasping with terror...but the tall black figures had closed around him, their terrible blades raised, and flames like serpents had streamed, coiled, rushed across the slopes towards him...trapped him in their flare...he had caught light and...the flames...

No. His mind shied away from that, but there were faint wisps of memories, images that flung themselves at him, rushed up in his mind's eye.

Legolas put his head in his hands but they burned now. The Eye was worse. Lingering at the edges of his consciousness, It was burned on his eyelids. It had flayed his skin from his bones, It burned so his blood had boiled in his veins and melted his flesh...He had screamed and screamed. But then, on the edge of the fire where he burned, there strode a radiant crimson figure that was not fire, was tall, furious. In his fist he bore a tongue of cool darkness that quenched the fire and devoured, as if famished, the cruel sorcery around him. The crimson swirling radiance fought the Nazgul for him...for him! Rávëyon.

He heard a quiet cry and realised it was himself. Quickly he stifled it and dug his nails into the palms of his trembling hands to remind himself what was real. This is real, he told himself. Here. You are with Gimli. And Pippin. You are still alive. But he needed to feel something, to remind him there were other sensations than burning and fire and agony. His skin still felt flayed, burned.

It was Elrohir who had brought him down from the mountainside, the radiant shadow with the dark blade, the crimson swirl of his power, his fea. And he had called Legolas "Beloved." Ah, how strong and noble was his visage, how like a god. He had been a warrior for millennia, had won such renown that the Orcs of the Mountains called him the Son of Thunder, and they trembled when they heard his name. He was of such lineage that his ancestors surely must grace the Halls of the Valar themselves.

The Woodelf archer sighed and drew his knees up. He leaned his head on his arms, looking at the half emerged eagle. Three times now Elrohir had saved him. The first time had been in Minas Tirith; the second time on the Mountain; and now he had at least sought to rescue him from where he had thrown himself to escape the Nazgul. True, this time Legolas had ended up saving Elrohir, but Legolas had put them both in danger in the first place. Fool, fool, fool. He knew better than to distract either himself or another on the field. And he had been nearly punished for it, but escaped again.

The fire burned low and he lifted his head enough to throw another few twigs on it, for the night was cold in spite of the low cloud. It was past midnight. On a whim, he picked up the half carved eagle and looked at it; he was not craftsman enough for such a task. He threw it into the fire. Immediately flames leaped and the eagle shifted, seemed to be half-alive and to writhe in the flames as it caught. Its hooked beak agape seemed to him to be screaming as he had when caught in the flame of the Eye. Suddenly his hand darted out and he pulled the eagle from the flames. It burned his hand and he dropped the carving amongst the ashes, and the wood glowed redly, crimson and orange and gold sparks dropped from it, turning black and dying as they hit the ground...

A slight sound behind him told him another stood nearby. He felt the hair on that side of him stand on end, and his skin felt the stroke of a gaze.

Turning slightly, he saw Elrohir settle down beside him. The Peredhel leaned forwards, his smooth raven-black hair fell over his shoulders. Carefully he picked up the carving and turned it lightly in his hands. 'An eagle?' he asked quietly, his voice was rich and dark and to Legolas, it felt like a caress.

'Yes.' Legolas wanted nothing so much as to press his mouth onto the full lips and press his skin to Elrohir's, to feel something other than the flayed soreness of the Eye on his skin, the burning of his flesh. He could barely speak so he said nothing, just waited, feeling the lust in his groin, swelling and straining against his breeches, pushing out all thoughts of anything but Elrohir. He pulled his hair over his shoulder and wrapped it unconsciously around his fist, remembering Elrohir in his ecstasy, long raven hair swirling about his strong stern face, the arrogance brought to softness, tenderness... And he caught Elrohir staring at him with such hunger as he felt himself. He wanted to lean in, take a kiss, slide his hands through that long silk hair, let it cool him.

Elrohir shifted slightly before he could, and spoke. 'I wish to thank you. You deflected the Nazgul. It would have killed me.'

Legolas looked down at the half carved eagle resting lightly in Elrohir's hands and paused. This was a warrior of millennia, of renown, the Son of Elrond, Rávëyon. No simple infatuation or distraction from battle. Legolas felt suddenly out of his depth, beyond himself.

'No! Please...' Legolas held up a hand to stop Elrohir. 'No. I wish to apologise to you. I...distracted you when you did not wish it.' He glanced at Elrohir, hoping not to see contempt, or worse, amusement. Flames caught in the grey eyes that had seen so much more than he, reflected off the raven hair, glowed on his skin.

Elrohir waved his hand dismissively. 'You saved me.' He reached out and took Legolas' hand in his and Legolas caught his breath.

Elrohir paused and glanced over at the sleeping Dwarf and Hobbit.

Legolas found his voice enough to say quietly, 'Do not fear. They will not understand us. Gimli understands Quenya but his knowledge of the Grey Tongue is not as good, and Pippin knows but a few words.' He did not say these were all words which Pippin had begged Legolas to teach him and none of which would he utter in Aragorn or Gandalf's hearing. In the presence of such a warrior, he felt young and foolish enough as it was.

Elrohir smiled slightly and, still holding his hand, he looked at Legolas properly. 'I called you my beloved in the Houses of Healing.' Elrohir looked away and carefully, he let Legolas' hand fall. 'But I have given this much thought this evening. And until this is over, I do not think we can be more than comrades.'

Something cracked in Legolas and he felt overwhelmed. He bowed his head for he knew this part too well.

Elrohir took a breath and seeing Legolas' head bowed, he said softly, 'Let me explain. It is not that I do not want you.'

Although Legolas said nothing, trying not to let it hurt, he could not help it. He needed to know he was alive, needed to feel something other than the pain and fear. He wanted Elrohir, needed him.

Elrohir bent his own head a little to catch Legolas' eye. 'But they can reach you through me,' he continued with resolve. 'And they can reach me by using you. We must take away this weapon from them. Neither of us should be vulnerable now.'

Elrohir spoke so reasonably. But Legolas felt his song in his blood. His body thrummed with the other Elf's nearness, he felt his skin tingle and desire swelled him. He heard the bitterness in his own voice when he said, 'We are vulnerable anyway. Resisting each other will not change that.' And seeking to soften it, to change Elrohir's mind before he changed his heart too, he clasped the other's hand again. Elrohir began to pull away but Legolas caught him and held him, pressed his lips against Elrohir's palm as he had before. 'Tell me you do not think about me. Tell me you don't want me right now.'

He watched as Elrohir's eyes came up to meet his and he felt the pulse in the hand he clasped throb and leap. 'Do not be afraid of me, Elrohir,' he said softly, hating the desperation in his voice, and lifted his other hand to push away a stray hair. 'Tell me you do not think about me when you should not. Tell me you are not distracted when I am near you.' He let his fingers brush Elrohir's rounded ear and stared with fascination, forgetting everything else in the moment. He wanted to lick it and caress him, but instead he let his fingers follow the curve of it down to Elrohir's smooth cheek, and then he brushed the lips that parted in a soft gasp of desire. He smiled. 'How will resisting me change that? How will it stop Them from doing anything?'

Elrohir blinked and seemed to breathe as if he had forgotten how for a moment. 'I do not want to be vulnerable,' he said firmly with an honesty he had not managed before.

'To love is to be vulnerable.' Legolas leaned towards him. But he did not kiss him. He was just close enough that to an onlooker he might seem to whisper, but he let his breath caress the other's skin and Elrohir's eyelids fluttered for a moment. Legolas stroked the inside of Elrohir's palm with his thumb in wonder at this experienced, battle hard warrior. 'I cannot promise you I will never hurt you,' he said honestly, leaning in again even more closely this time. 'But I promise you, we will forget everything else for a while.' Now he let his hand draw through the long black silk of his hair and felt Elrohir shudder. 'They cannot invade our thoughts if we guard each other. At least let us comfort each other in this last stand before Mordor.'

'I cannot think with you near me. I do not trust myself with you,' said Elrohir and he caught Legolas' hand as it slid through his hair, stopped him. Although his full lips parted in desire, there was stern resolve in his eyes. 'You are all I can think about and I must stop this. My place is beside Aragorn right now, for his time is upon him and he needs me there. He needs us all. He trusts us to stand with him and I would not fail him now.'

Abruptly Legolas stopped. Aragorn's name had acted like a bucket of cold water and he laughed wryly. 'I would not want to fail in my trust,'*** he said and could not keep the slightest bitterness from his voice.

Then he shook his head and sighed in resignation. That comment was unworthy of him. This was not him. He sought to slake his lust now, to drive the thoughts of the Eye from his mind with Elrohir. No. That would merely be using him and he had been wrong before, careless, rushing in to satisfy his desire with no thought for what might be. Was he not trying to make amends himself?

As if sensing his compliance, Elrohir leaned closer to Legolas than he had himself and lightly touched his cheek. 'After the battle,' he said again with iron resolve. 'I promise you. Beloved. I am sworn now to protect you whatever the cost to myself. And if this is the price, then so be it.'

'Then you had better look after your own skin so it can press against mine the minute battle is over.' Legolas drew back and laughed lightly, but there was an edge in his voice and he knew he looked abjectly disappointed. He could not, did not bother to hide it. 'And if I think it goes against us, I will simply have to seek you out so the Orcs have something else to look upon apart from our steel weapons should it go ill!' He released Elrohir and leaned back.

Elrohir smiled and Legolas realised he had seen him smile but once before, when he awoke in the Houses of Healing and he called him Beloved. It softened him and he looked younger, a glimpse perhaps of the Elf he was before his journey of revenge had taken him on the errantry for which he was renowned. Legolas felt a softness in his limbs and a flutter in his stomach that he had not felt for many years and he laughed at himself and his foolish heart.

'You will have to be satisfied with that, my Legolas.' For a moment, Legolas thought Elrohir was going to kiss him there in view of any who happened to be looking. But instead, Elrohir rose, a little stiffly, to his feet and pulled his cloak about himself. He looked down upon Legolas and there was tenderness in the grey eyes, but also strength and determination. Legolas sighed in understanding. He felt their songs twine around each other and knew that somehow, somehow, if they became separate that his own green-gold threads would become unravelled.

After Elrohir left, he drew a loose thread from his sleeve and looked at it without seeing it.

oo000o0o00oo

Pippin grinned beneath his blanket. He had no idea what they were saying but it was enough for him to hear the hushed voices, the tenderness. He almost squealed gleefully to himself with delight. He wished he could tell Merry. He would be so annoyed that Pippin had worked it all out before he had. It wouldn't be the same telling Gimli. Gimli would just start chewing his beard and looking harassed. It is funny, Pippin told himself as if he would tell Merry were he here, they had no idea Legolas was such a passionate soul when they began on the Quest. Until he started singing those songs to irritate Gandalf they had thought him rather aloof. The Hobbit stifled a yawn and felt his eyelids grow heavy, sleepy.

oo0000oo0o0o0ooo

Sorry for how long I have not updated here- I just thought there seemed to be very little interest and hten got a few kudos and thought perhaps people are reading it here after all. Reviews/ comments/ kudos is always fab. And it will encourage me in writing the prequel.

 

For those of you who know or who have read this on ffnet, I have changed this everso slightly because I want it to link with Spiced Wine's wonderful spin off to this which tells of Aicanaro. So I have just slightly altered the bit about the sword to link it better with what she has writen.

Translation:

baur-ûr: Fire of need/desire

* Laws and Customs of the Elves- Tolkien's own reference to the role of sex and marriage. As most of his works were based on the Noldor, I think it is reasonable to assume that other realms and races would have different views- especially the Avari and Green elves.

** ROTK- Aragorn says this about the ambush - see reference at the start of the chapter.

*** Aragorn asks this at the Council of Elrond - how have they come to fail of their trust. In the prequel to this story, Legolas refers to it several times. It irks him since they were set upon by orcs and the guards slain or taken.


	37. The Last Deep Breath before the Plunge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Pippin writes a letter to Merry.

Disclaimer : usual stuff

Thanks to Anarithilien, without whom, this would still be in a cyber drawer somewhere, and to Melusine for her support and encouragement.

Summary: Elrohir has told Legolas in the last chapter, 'not yet'. Legolas is unconvinced. Pippin overheard their conversation and although he did not understand the words, he understood the meaning. They are on the way to the Black Gate.

 

Chapter 37: The Last Deep Breath before the plunge.

"But the victory did little to enhearten the captains... And from that evening onward the Nazgûl came and followed every move of the army. They still flew high and out of sight of all save Legolas, and yet their presence could be felt, as a deepening of shadow and a dimming of the sun; and though the Ringwraiths did not yet stoop low upon their foes and were silent, uttering no cry, the dread of them could not be shaken off." – ROTK, The Black Gate Opens

 

The next morning was cold. The wind came from the North and there was a freshness that had not been there before. Pippin was riding behind Gandalf but the Wizard seemed forbidding this morning and answered briskly. Not encouraging at all, thought Pippin and wished he were riding with Legolas or Aragorn instead.

To take his mind off the inevitable, Pippin wrote a little mental letter to Merry.

'Dear Merry,' it said. 'We have almost reached our destination and the weather is really not very nice now. The scenery leaves a great deal to be desired. It is mainly rocks and there are big slag heaps. The Dark Lord could really do with a team of Gamgees to smarten up this bit of Mordor. But I have managed to keep myself entertained by watching Legolas and Gimli.

'You will remember, Merry,' he said, 'that last night I discovered through tremendous powers of observation, well, eavesdropping, that Elrohir and Legolas have a bit of thing going on. Well today, Legolas has been very well behaved, and I am a little disappointed to be honest with you. But that may be because Gandalf had a 'quiet word' with Legolas earlier today, (You know, like he does when he thinks people aren't looking, or listening,) but it was all in Elvish so I don't know what he said but Legolas was nodding very seriously. And that usually means he is not listening to a word being said. As we well know!

'Since then Elrodan and Ellahir have had very little to do with poor Legolas all day. (I have adopted Gimli's naming for them as I cannot tell which one is which.) Neither of them is giving Legolas much encouragement and he looks at them every now and again in much the same way as Sam looks at Rosie Cotton!

'Aragorn is the one behaving the most strangely though. It started with him inviting Gimli to ride with him instead of with Legolas as he usually does. Aragorn that is. I mean Gimli to ride with Aragorn rather than Legolas. Never mind.

'Gimli was rather surprised and agreed of course. I mean, it doesn't do to say no to a King Returned and all that. Well Merry, you'll be interested to know that they were having a proper chinwag and Aragorn was doing his best to be discrete, so he was muttering out of the side of his mouth like he does when he doesn't want everyone to know what he's saying. You know, like he did when we were going into Moria and he was trying to persuade Gandalf it was a bad idea. And look how that turned out! I don't know what Aragorn said to Gimli but Gimli still looks mightily cross and upset. He has spent most of the time denying something, so perhaps Aragorn thinks he has taken the last of the pipeweed. You can see where Gimli has been chewing his beard and the ends are all stuck together.

'At the moment, Merry, you will be interested to know that I am riding again with Gandalf so I can watch what is going on very easily...But he is still a bit stern even though I saved him several times during the siege of Minas Tirith. Most notably from having an orc chop his head off!'*

Shadowfax stumbled briefly and Pippin lurched forwards against Gandalf and had to grab him. Beneath the white robes, Pippin felt hard muscle, no fat. Lean and sinewy the Wizard felt, nothing like an old man actually, and it made Pippin a little afraid again of Gandalf for he was so much more than the old grey conjuror they thought of him in the Shire.

'Are you all right back there, Pippin, my lad?' Gandalf asked, turning his head slightly and suddenly affable.

'Yes. Thank you for asking.'

'You are very quiet. What is going on in that Hobbit head of yours?'

Pippin thought for a moment because he did not want to tell Gandalf what he had guessed about Legolas- it was private and he thought Gandalf, being a friend of Elrond's and all, might not approve. And the Wizard had also been quite angry with Elrohir recently so he might not approve that way around either. Anyway, if it was important Gandalf would already know. And he did not think Gandalf would be quite pleased to know Pippin was writing to Merry about how he, Pippin, had saved Gandalf. Sort of.

'I am watching people and writing a letter to Merry in my head,' he answered truthfully, leaving out anything else that might embarrass the Wizard.

Gandalf snorted as if he knew exactly what was in the letter, and exactly what Pippin was watching with such interest. 'I am sure you are. Well. You keep watching and treasure every moment. It will not be long now and I wager once we are before the Gates, it will be difficult enough.'

Pippin decided to do as Gandalf told him and looked back to where Gimli was bouncing around behind Aragorn and looking very uncomfortable, for the magnificent horse was prancing and shaking its head. In fact, Pippin decided, neither Gimli nor Aragorn looked very comfortable.

Pippin grinned and looked around for Legolas. The Elf's horse was ambling along on the edges of the Host, snatching at the grass, and trailing along with its head low, very much at its own pace. Although to anyone else Legolas seemed hugely unconcerned about being so close to Mordor, Pippin could see that really he was scanning the sky all the time and that his bow was strung and held loosely. Pippin wondered if Legolas had truly recovered from his dreadful encounter with the Nazgul. He thought not, for every now and again he would catch Legolas rubbing his chest with his hand and frowning, as if he could not quite work out what was going on.

As he watched, the Elf raised his head and looked around him, blinking as if he had almost forgotten where he was. Pippin saw that Aragorn was beckoning to Legolas and then the Man glanced back to say something to Gimli. Pippin could also see that the Dwarf shook his head furiously once more, in denial of something. He looked increasingly agitated when Aragorn beckoned to Legolas more insistently.

Arod seemed reluctant to leave the edge of the host and snatched at a bunch of weeds before trotting forwards to join the marching vanguard. Once he had caught up, the Rohan horse shook his head and lapsed back into a plod, munching contentedly on the weeds that hung from his mouth. Aragorn's black stallion put its ears back and snapped at Arod bad-temperedly. Laughing, Legolas leaned over and said something to Aragorn which Pippin could not hear. The King Returned looked mightily annoyed and protested.

'I think we are all surprised that Aragorn has not fallen off that horse,' Pippin added as a PS in his letter to Merry. 'And pleased of course, for Elessar, the King Returned. That's another name for Aragorn.'

Pippin frowned because Gimli was chewing his beard and looking very anxious again while Aragorn was just looking frustrated. But Legolas was grinning infuriatingly, so he was probably enjoying befuddling Aragorn, thought Pippin.

The other Hobbits would have loved this, Pippin mused. Sam would have thought they were being disrespectful to Strider of course, and Frodo would have listened intently, translating in his head. Merry and he would just have laughed at Legolas tying Aragorn up in knots and it was more fun when he got annoyed. Pippin sighed and rubbed his hand over his nose. He was thinking a lot about the other Hobbits, and suddenly he felt a little pang of homesickness. He wished Merry was there with him. Then as he looked up at the grim mountains that seemed to loom and close in above them, he thought better of it. Instead he wished that they were all back in Rivendell, enjoying a pipe...or even better, that they were all safely back in the Shire and Sam was with Rosie Cotton dancing on the green...

'The daffs will be out in The Shire,' he found himself saying aloud, wistfully. But Gandalf did not reply so he thought perhaps he had not heard.

Pippin shifted again so he could go back to watching what unfolded between the other members of the Fellowship; Aragorn was leaning back to speak to Legolas and that had Gimli squashed behind Aragorn. The Dwarf was grumbling loudly, but Pippin could not hear what they said. 'Perhaps we can catch up with Aragorn and Gimli, Gandalf?' he asked.

'If you are so keen to know what goes on there, why don't you ride with Legolas instead. That way you will miss nothing,' the Wizard said but not unkindly, and beckoned Legolas over.

'Pippin has had quite enough of bouncing around at my back like a piece of luggage for a Hobbit walking party,' said Gandalf to the Elf as he drew alongside. 'Let him join you for a while and give me some peace. I have other things to attend to.'

Legolas looked pleased. 'Hello Pippin,' he said, extending his arm easily to Pippin and pulling him over.

'Hello Legolas.' Pippin heaved himself aboard the Rohan horse and settled himself behind Legolas, trying to be more cheerful than he felt. 'How are things with you? Isn't this a nice day for a trip?'

'It is indeed, although I think the company could be merrier,' Legolas threw a careless laugh back over his shoulder at Pippin. 'I do believe the Dwarf is cross about something.'

'I can't think what that might be,' Pippin lied, feeling better, and he watched Gandalf canter away to the head of the Host.

A little later, they heard trumpets blowing and then the loud voices of the heralds declared the coming of Elessar, King of Gondor, etc, etc... They passed Shadowfax standing with his head thrown up, nostrils flaring and Gandalf astride him all in shining white. The heralds blew their horns and shouted again. Pippin and Legolas stared for a moment in surprise and then Legolas glanced back at Pippin and smiled.

'All this will go to his head,' he said but there was an edge that was not quite fear but the knowledge all would soon be ended, one way or another.

Legolas allowed Arod to drift back to the edges and nibble at anything that was green but that grew less and less until the horse gave a deep sigh and turned its head back to the march. They had fallen back a little from their companions who rode in the vanguard, and they themselves now marched at the rear of the Rohirrim. The Dunedain were behind them and Elrodan was with them. Ellahir, Pippin marked, was now near the front with Aragorn and Gimli.

As they ambled along, falling further and further behind the vanguard, Pippin and Legolas chatted about Merry, and Legolas was interested to know more of The Shire. All in all, thought Pippin, you would never think they were marching towards Certain Death. But he supposed that living in Mirkwood, Legolas must be used to that and it just did not affect him as much. In fact, the Hobbits had decided a long time ago that that was the reason for Elrond choosing Legolas and not some great and powerful Elf lord like Glorfindel.

The Dunedain drew alongside them now and Legolas spoke to Arod in some horse language, Pippin thought, and they joined the Host once more, walking briskly alongside Elrodan and Aragorn's kin. Pippin grinned to himself with faint smugness. He could see Legolas turn his head towards Elrodan and give his most dazzling smile. Elrodan was usually so stern and forbidding, thought Pippin, but he turned to Legolas and there was definitely a softness, even a hint of a smile, so Pippin thought this must be Elrohir.

Pippin smiled indulgently, and added a note for Merry: 'Legolas is behaving like a besotted tweenager. And Aragorn and Gimli have no idea what is going on.'

Legolas had leaned over towards the one Pippin was sure now was Elrohir and spoke to him in their own tongue. But Elrohir only murmured brief answers, not taking his eyes from the road before them until Legolas gave a loud, exaggerated sigh and quite openly put his hand on Elrohir's thigh. Pippin's eyes were wide with glee but Elrohir seemed shocked, his horse shied and he had to sway in the saddle. He said something sharply to Legolas and Legolas shrugged and looked away.

'What did he say?' Pippin whispered.

Legolas glanced back, green eyes danced with amusement. 'He told me to keep my hands on my weapon, for these are dark times.'

Pippin's eyes were like saucers. Even he knew what that meant. 'Did he?'

'No,' said a darker, deeper voice. 'I did not.'

Pippin turned round hurriedly to see the stern grey eyes of Elrohir who had regained his composure and seat, and rode alongside them again.

'Oh. I do beg your pardon,' he said and found himself bowing a little because Elrohir invoked that instinct in everyone. Pippin hoped it was Elrohir anyway - if it was Elladan that Legolas was flirting with that would be very complicated!

Elrohir inclined his head slightly and glanced at Legolas, lifting an eyebrow in a mannerism so like his father that Pippin stared. Legolas threw an even more dazzling grin at Elrohir but the son of Elrond purposefully moved his horse away and did not look back.

'Well?' demanded the Hobbit a little later, 'Aren't you going to follow him?'

Legolas glanced over his shoulder. 'I follow Aragorn,' he said but there was a definite note of amusement in his voice.

0o0o0oooo

Pippin grew tired of sitting on a horse, his legs were too short to be comfortable and he wondered if anyone would think less of him if he joined the wagons for a while. Peering around Legolas, he saw that the land had changed and they marched across bare rock and shale now. In the distance he could see a thin ribbon, like mist, but it seemed an unearthly pallor, with an almost greenish tinge to it.

As if reading his thoughts, Legolas said quietly, 'Ahead are the Dead Marshes. We have left Ithilien and are entering Dagorlad where the Last Alliance battled against the forces of Mordor. What you see, Pippin, is where Elrond stood with Isildur and Elendil and Gil-Galad.'

Pippin felt suddenly overwhelmed, as if History had rushed up and enveloped him. He was part of it now. But it was a history of defeat and tragedy. This was the place Elrond had spoken of at the Council; this was where the Last Alliance had stood against Sauron and where Gil-Galad had fallen, where Elendil had been slain and where Isildur had cut the Ring from Sauron's finger...and kept it.

Suddenly Pippin looked up at Legolas and thought how sad he sounded. He knew that Legolas was very old even though he felt like a tweenager.

'Were you there?' Pippin asked in a hushed voice.

Legolas laughed and all the cobwebs and reaching fingers of History were swept away in the brightness. Pippin was suddenly reminded of Tom Bombadil. 'No. I am counted as young amongst my folk,' Legolas said cheerfully, but then his voice changed and he sobered. 'There are none here who remember that day, but in my father's halls that war is called The Grief. My grandfather was lost here...and a third of all our folk were slain, or lost in that battle.'

'A third?' Pippin tried to imagine a third of the Shire menfolk killed and found he could not and did not want to...the fields would lie empty and the harvest ungathered...There would be few children. He could not imagine how it might have affected Mirkwood; for the forest was not The Shire but a perilous realm. Bilbo had loved telling them about the dark forest full of spiders and wargs and elves.

Legolas was quiet after that for a bit but gradually he leaned slightly with his head tilted as if listening. Arod quickened his pace and listed towards the Marshes as if he were pulled by invisible threads.

"Legolas?' Pippin said quietly and pulled at the Elf's sleeve. Legolas seemed to shake himself awake then and Arod pushed his way back into the ranks of the Host. But Legolas was very quiet after that and Pippin became aware too that the Elf rubbed his fingertips together as if they tingled uncomfortably.

'Why do you keep rubbing your fingers together?' Pippin asked curiously. Legolas glanced back at him over his shoulder.

'It is the Nazgul. They are above,' he said softly. Pippin felt a chill creep down his back and realised that he had felt it all along but only now was he aware of it. He suddenly noticed too that the Men were quieter, more pensive. 'I can feel Them trying to get into my thoughts.'

Pippin looked up. He could just see far, far above, three black dots wheeling in the sky. 'I thought those were eagles,' he said suddenly frightened. 'Why are They up there?'

'They are watching us,' replied the Elf seriously and his muscles were tight, bunched under his tunic. Pippin felt that at any moment he might spring off the horse and whirl into action. 'If we have done enough, They think that...They think we have the Ring, and merely await a chance to attack.'

'I thought Gandalf wanted Them to think it was Merry who had It when we were in Minas Tirith?' Pippin said frowning.

Legolas was very quiet for a moment and Pippin looked up at the Elf's back. He sat very tall, taller than most of the men by at least a head, although Aragorn was almost as tall. His long hair was pulled over one shoulder out of Pippin's way but long strands wisped back in the wind and strayed across Pippin's sight. The engraved pattern of vines and leaves that twined around his quiver seemed suddenly intensely clear and he realised for the first time, he thought, that the intricate swirls and curlicues only looked like leaves but were in fact runes or some sort of script.

'Merry is not here,' Pippin thought aloud.

'No, he is not,' Legolas said carefully. He breathed in deeply as if he were preparing himself for something. Then he paused for a moment and said, looking back over his shoulder at Pippin. 'I think perhaps you should ride in the wagon for a while.'

Pippin frowned again and wondered if Legolas grew tired of him…but that had never happened before. Legolas had always been patient and kind with the Hobbits and seemed especially to enjoy his own company. Hardly surprising, thought Pippin less than humbly. He looked at Legolas' straight back again, ramrod straight and although he was light, strong shouldered and lean, Pippin knew he was stronger than anyone else in the Host, even the sons of Elrond, he thought.

But before the Hobbit could answer his own question, a white horse cantered along the edges of the Host and stopped beside them. Shadowfax. He shook his head and fell into step with them.

'Pippin,' the Wizard said quietly, 'I need you to ride with me a while.'

To Pippin's surprise, Legolas did not immediately move towards Shadowfax, nor did he reach round to help Pippin. He sat silently and turned his head towards Gandalf. Pippin shifted to give Legolas a hint that he might actually need some help but unusually the Elf was unresponsive.

He realised that Gandalf was looking at Legolas but he did not seem annoyed. If anything, his blue eyes were softer, as if he understood something that Pippin did not. Then the Wizard sighed and said, 'You know why we are all here, Thranduillion.'

That seemed to work because Legolas suddenly said something back to Gandalf that Pippin could not understand as it was in Legolas' own tongue. It didn't sound like a compliment though, and when Gandalf frowned, Pippin almost ducked in case Gandalf turned Legolas into something unpleasant.

Instead, Legolas reached around and his hand caught Pippin's for a moment. The long hard hands squeezed Pippin's for a second and Pippin was taken aback, but before he knew it, Arod had moved up against Shadowfax and Legolas was lifting Pippin carefully onto the white horse's broad back.

Legolas did not say anything but he glared at Gandalf. 'I will ride with you,' he said firmly, and Gandalf merely inclined his head slightly in agreement but said nothing.

Pippin settled himself more comfortably behind Gandalf and clung to the white robes. 'Back with you again, Gandalf,' he said brightly, wondering what the fuss was about, but no one was going to tell him.

'We are going to the head of the vanguard, Pippin,' Gandalf told him seriously. 'Hold tight.' Shadowfax swished his tail and moved off and Pippin had to grab Gandalf's robes tightly to stop himself falling off.

Shadowfax cantered slowly to the front, and Pippin turned to see that Legolas followed. Oddly, Legolas looked forlorn. Pippin gave him a grin but the Elf briefly covered his eyes with one hand and then smoothed it back over his hair in one of his small gestures of distress that Pippin recognised. Pippin did not think that was because he was no longer riding behind him and his frown deepened.

As Shadowfax cantered slowly up past the ranks of marching Rohirrim, Swan-Knights and Dunedain, Pippin felt a growing unease, and he slowly realized he felt the Nazguls' regard fall upon them. It was suddenly more intense and even more horribly, he felt Their focus was on him.

He quickly realised that he was not alone in this; everyone felt the Nazguls' malevolence. It was like nails scraping down a painted board. It set his teeth on edge. Gandalf kept looking upwards and seemed so tense. He held his staff like a sword as if ready to strike if They came too close. Aragorn came to ride with them, Anduril also unsheathed, and Gimli seemed just as nervous. Legolas too was close, his bow strung and an arrow held loosely, ready. The Elf scanned the sky persistently and he looked like he would let it fly at a mere whisper.

Eventually Aragorn steered the long column of men away from the road and closer to the mountains and it seemed the Nazgul left them then because Legolas suddenly stopped rubbing his fingertips.

oo000o0o0oo0oo

When they set their last camp in the shadow of the mountains, Pippin found himself at loose ends. Everyone seemed to have a job to do but him. They were either cooking or cleaning weapons, checking arrows and axes or sharpening swords. He sat near Gimli and idly twirled his finger around a stone. Gimli was fidgeting and anxious and kept glancing up at Legolas as if he wanted to ask him something but could not. Once Elrodan drifted past and Legolas looked up with such devotion and hope in his eyes that Pippin hid a smile, for in that moment Legolas looked every bit as young as he said he was. But Gimli pursed his lips and said nothing though he went back to sharpening his axe rather more vigorously than he had before.

Pippin looked at the Dwarf with sudden interest and wondered if Gimli too suspected something. He thought he would wait until Legolas wandered off and then ask him.

As it happened, he never got the chance. For as night fell, a strange and eerie silence settled over the camp and the men and horses were restless. The horses in particular snorted and stamped their hooves and that made the men even more nervous. As the sun set and twilight stole across the bleak and empty land, Aragorn ordered the guard be doubled.

Pippin had not felt this nakedly terrified since they left the Shire and were pursued by the Nazgul. As the night closed around them, the moon rose but it was shrouded in mists and cloud. A foul, suffocating stench crept from Mordor over the land and no one seemed to want to sleep. Except for Gimli.

The Dwarf sat polishing his axe and then yawned widely, showing his hard white teeth and said, 'This reminds me of the open mines in the Grey Mountains. Sulphur is what you can smell, Pippin. It is from the earth.'

Pippin thought it smelt like rotten eggs and the fact that it came from the earth rather than something created by Sauron did not really help.

Wolves howled on the edges of the camp and raised his hair. But in the darkness, it was not only Pippin who kept looking over his shoulder for there were... things...prowling in the dark. The wolves were not the worst. At least they were real animals... but there was a sense of dread and fear. A prickling in his thumbs made Pippin start to rub his fingers together in the way he had seen Legolas earlier and he recognised the cold dread that crawled across his scalp, and down his neck.

Legolas stood taut as a bowstring on the edge of the camp, looking outward, arrow held to his bow. No one spoke much and there was little attempt to stave off the battle nerves with song or story. Pippin watched the flames and thought of the Shire. And Frodo and Sam. He wished Merry was here and then was glad he was not. At least one of us might get home, he told himself gloomily. Pippin did not really even watch this time as Elrohir passed by.

OoOoOoOoOoOo

The mists swirled around the edges of the camp, grey tendrils like fingers crept between the camp fires, wound about each little camp, sneaked beneath blankets and cloaks, cold, cold and damp. As darkness fell, the fires seemed to dim and the men huddled together and were quiet.

Elrohir listened to the wolves, their sharp yaps and little cries drawing close and circling, then as they gathered, one long drawn howl lifted mournfully into the air. It was joined by another, and then another and another until the air thrummed with that strangely lonely sound.

The mist gradually thickened with the darkness until the small campfires were blurred and Elrohir knew that each huddle of men felt they were quite alone in the dark, in the cold. A bitter wind soughed above, over him and a horse whinnied in terror. He looked upwards but could see nothing. The darkness pressed down on him, pressed down on his eyes, his face, his skin, and the clammy mist curled and crept around him.

He rested his hand on his sword hilt and felt the smooth metal warm beneath his touch. Aícanaro. He clasped it for comfort and felt the thrill of power in his fingers.

Above him, the Nazgul circled silently on their great repitilian steeds. He felt the sough of the thin leathery wings as each wraith slid invisibly through the darkness and mist above and no one spoke, but listened and held their breath.

Elrohir was not afraid. He had defeated the Nazgul. He had seen their minds, felt the thin malice sheer against his will and slide off. He strode determinedly between the camp fires and clasped a man here and another there, speaking boldly and letting his own courage fill them. He felt too, Elladan's cool blue peace settle and still them. Another power, a silver-blue light that was Olórin, gave them hope. And through it all ran a song, a ribbon of green-gold light, like a forest stream running through the trees, into dim pools where ferns grew lushly and the clear cold water ran over slate and granite. Elrohir felt the threads of himself drawn tight and pulled inevitably towards it.

He found Legolas standing on the edge of the camp, closest to the horses and the Rohirrim. His song was low, barely heard, almost beneath consciousness. He stood taller than any save Elrohir himself and his brother. In his hand he held his bow loosely. The horses were still and their heads were turned towards him as his song without words drifted over them and their ears twitched and flicked.

Elrohir's hand rested on the hilt of his dark bladed sword. He went and stood near Legolas, so close that they almost, but did not quite, touch. Together they stood, here on the edge of Mordor, before the final battle. They did not speak but Legolas leaned towards him slightly and in the cold air, his low, wordless song misted and mingled with Elrohir's breath.

TBC

* Pippin is referring to movie verse where he and Gandalf were in the siege of Minas Tirith.

Next chapter: The Black Gate opens


	38. Before the Black Gate

As always, the fabulous Anarithilien makes such a difference. Thank you so much for everything, Anar.

Thank to those kind readers who take the time to review- it makes a real difference to know people are reading and enjoying this. I always reply to logged in reviews but to those who don't for any reason, thank you.

Reminder: The Host of the West has marched upon Mordor. Elrohir and Legolas have reached an understanding and Elrohir is insistent that until the battle/war is over, they must wait and this way, he trusts, Legolas will not be a distraction to him, and he will not be vulnerable to the Nazgul through Legolas...how wrong can you be?

 

Chapter 38: Before the Black Gate

It was cold and as morning came, the wind began to stir again but now it came from the North, and soon it freshened to a rising breeze. The land seemed empty. Had he not been a Dwarf, Gimli would have felt the same unease that struck at the Men now, but as he was not, as he was a Dwarf-lord and Master Smith of the Stone Halls, Warrior of Erebor, he hummed cheerfully instead and combed his beard. He tutted at the coarseness under his fingers, wondering if he still had left any of that nice oil he had found in Minas Tirith. He intended to look his best for battle. He glanced across to where Pippin sat hunched up in his blanket, head on his arms and looking miserably at the camp. Legolas was nowhere to be seen.

Gimli hummed a little more loudly, a little more cheerfully, and picked up his coat of mail that he had worn throughout the Quest, looking at it appraisingly. The rings were bright and loose, but a quick polish would do no harm. Spitting on his coat sleeve, he rubbed the armour vigorously.

'I intend to dazzle the Eye itself today, lad,' he said. Pippin watched for a moment until Gimli held the coat up to the grey light and nodded in satisfaction. 'Do you not need to sharpen that sword of yours?' he asked, nodding at the short sword Pippin had got from the barrow-wights. He remembered the Hobbits telling the tale one night around the campfire very early on in the Quest. Merry and Pippin had taken it in turns while Sam stirred the little cooking pot. Boromir had taken the knife, for such as it was to him, and looked at it carefully, reverently…Ah. Gimli sighed. It seemed so long ago now.

No point dwelling on that now, he told himself sternly. It was for the Fellowship that he would fight today like Mahal himself was there.

'I suppose I should,' Pippin said half-heartedly and rummaged amongst his own small belongings to find his whetstone.

'And I will join you.' Gimli lifted his axe, letting his fingers stroke along the Khuzdul runes that he himself had etched onto the handle and poured molten mithril over them to give them potency. The steady scrape of stone on metal soothed him, the rhythm of it like a chant under the deep heart of the mountain and the words seemed to form themselves from the sounds around him.

Pippin too seemed soothed by the secret words, and even though he could not hear them in the way Gimli did, the Dwarf knew the song of stone on steel would fire his blood.

After a while, Pippin said in a brighter voice, 'I have been writing a letter to Merry.'

Gimli nodded. 'I have been writing a letter to my father.' When Pippin lifted his head to look at him, Gimli smiled and said, 'Don't tell the Elf.'

'I don't think he will laugh at us,' Pippin said softly and looked back down at his short sword. Then he smiled secretly and added in a voice more like his own, 'He is too busy anyway.'

Gimli frowned, wondering what Pippin meant, but they were all in a fey mood so he did not enquire further and returned to attending his axe. When he was satisfied that the blade would spilt a hair, he stopped and hefted the axe in his hand, and whispered its secret name. About him horses were being saddled and Men strode one way or another.

'Where is Legolas?' Pippin asked, looking around as if he had not finished the thought he had started a moment ago.

'He has gone to find Aragorn, I think. Or find a tree, I am not sure which.' Gimli sighted along the blade of his axe with satisfaction. 'He has been gone for some time.'

'So he's not with Elrodan then?' Pippin asked, carefully sweeping the stone along his own short blade. Gimli looked up quickly and narrowed his eyes.

'I have no idea. Why should he be?' he said more sharply than he intended, for Aragorn's constant interrogation yesterday had hardly been subtle. And as usual, the Man had been looking down a mine shaft for mithril when there was none. Gimli narrowed his eyes. Did he imagine a small smile played about Pippin's lips then?

'No reason,' said Pippin rather more blithely than necessary and Gimli, who had spent long months in the wild with the Fellowship, was just as astute as Merry now in picking up Pippin's feigned innocence.

'Then why do you ask?' he asked sharply. This time he shot Pippin a hard stare that would normally have reduced the Hobbit to silence.

Perhaps it was the imminence of the danger for Pippin looked Gimli squarely, boldly in the eye and said chirpily, 'You have the eyes of a bat and the ears of a hawk. Just thought you might know where he is.'

'Hawk and bat,' Gimli corrected automatically.

'That's what I said,' Pippin answered, a shade of indignation in his voice now. He let his whetstone drop beside him and looked along the blade in exactly the way Boromir had taught him.

'No. You said eyes of a bat and ears of a hawk. You meant ears of a bat and eyes of a hawk,' Gimli said, with only a smidgen left of patience.

'That's what I said!' Pippin declared, gazing up at Gimli with that wide eyed innocence that usually had the Fellowship checking their blankets, shoes, water skins, etc. 'Ears of a rat.' Gimli was not sure he said 'rat' but when he looked at Pippin and his innocent wide eyes, he was certain of it. He took a step towards the Hobbit and Pippin said quickly, 'Anyway, where is he?'

Gimli gritted his teeth. He drew on the patience that had seen him through the Quest so far, the patience of his folk, the patience of stone, of the mountain and said slowly, grinding it out, 'I have told you. He has gone to find Aragorn.'

'You think.'

'Yes. I think.'

Pippin stood up and stretched. 'So you don't think he is with Elrodan or Ellahir?'

'No! Why would he seek out Elrodan?' Gimli burst out. His scowl deepened, 'Or Ellahir.' Mahal- Pippin was as bad as Aragorn!

'Well I suppose you would know with those rat ears,'

'Bat ears.'

'I think rats have better hearing though, don't they?' Pippin asked widening his eyes even further, and Gimli wondered why on all Arda he had ever felt sorry for the Hobbit.

'Are you bickering?' a voice above them was amused. It was Legolas and both Hobbit and Dwarf looked away abashed. Legolas quirked an eyebrow at them and shrugged.

'RAT,' mouthed Pippin provocatively and Gimli fumed and found his hand worrying the ends of his beard and fighting the urge to put the ends in his mouth.

Legolas laughed lightly and said, 'It is hardly becoming for Angren-Pau, the great Dwarf-lord and Mumak-Slayer to meet the Enemy with a soggy beard.' He reached out and gently stilled Gimli's hand.

Gimli ground his teeth and told himself over and over, very quickly, patience of stone, patience of the mountain. But he didn't feel like it. No. He felt like taking his axe to some orcs rather hard and rather soon. Instead, because there was only an infuriating Hobbit and a patronizing Elf close enough to make his fingers itch, he pulled his beard into two braids and muttered to himself as he bound them. Then he pulled his copper-wire hair into a thick braid and tucked it under his mail shirt. He scowled disapprovingly at Legolas' long, windblown hair.

'Any Orc worth its salt will grab you by that horse-mane and you'll be pig-iron.*

Legolas gave him a long steady look and Gimli was suddenly reminded that Legolas was not simply a tall gangly Dwarf but actually an Elf, alien, strange and utterly incomprehensible.

'It is easier by far to hold someone by a tail than grasp them by a mane,' Legolas replied lightly with obviously no intention of changing anything.

'Suit yourself,' Gimli muttered, grabbing his axe and hefting it over his shoulder.

Legolas was still looking at him though and Gimli sighed and stared straight on back. Not even Legolas was going to beat him in a staring duel. As he caught and held the Elf's eye, Legolas reached over his shoulder and wound his hair about his own hand and then stopped, as if he realised what he was doing. He looked down for a moment and smiled slightly, then he shoved it all under his tunic.

'There,' he said, tilting his head slightly and regarding Gimli strangely. 'Satisfied? It won't stay there.'

Gimli nodded and felt a strange relief, for he had often worried that an orc would seize that long hair and pull his friend down. 'It will at least give you a fighting chance to beat my score,' he said provocatively.

Legolas gave a sudden shout of laughter and clapped Gimli on the shoulder. 'Let us wager something worthwhile,' he said and Gimli laughed back and showed his white teeth. He heard Pippin sigh and the hobbit put his head in his hands for a moment and groaned.

'Let us wager that I will kill more orcs than you,' Legolas said, sliding his hands over the straps of his quiver and pulling them to check they were secure. 'How about…' he glanced about him for something of value.

'How about whoever kills the most, publicly admits the Dwarves are better than the Elves,' Gimli said chirpily and he eased his helm down over his head and wriggled it from side to side, checking it was wedged on properly.

'Pah! Why would I do that?' Legolas demanded but his eyes sparkled with amusement. 'How about whoever wins admits the Elves were right and the Dwarves were holed up in Smaug's cave drooling over treasure?'

Gimli showed his teeth. 'What about if the loser admits the only reason the Elves were even at Erebor, was because their King was a miserly…'

'Um. Is this a friendly contest?' Pippin asked.

'Yes. Of course it is!' Gimli said but he glanced across at Legolas who had turned away slightly and Gimli felt like kicking himself. He remembered the yellow smoke, and the heavy trophy hoisted onto a spear*. Ah! Fool. 'As I was going to say, a miserly yet honorable King who turned aside from his quest for gold to aid the people of Esgaroth…' He huffed and shook his head at his own stupidity. 'I have heard however, some very unflattering comments about the youngest son.'

'You have?' Pippin seemed willing to join Gimli's attempts to redeem himself and the slight smile on Legolas' face was a relief to Gimli. 'Have any of them included sons of other Elven lords?'

Gimli shot Pippin a quick look. But surely Pippin could not share Aragorn's imagined concerns about Elrohir and Legolas? No, Pippin could hardly see what was under his own nose most of the time, Gimli decided, strapping on his greaves. Legolas had never shown the slightest bit of interest in either of the sons of Elrond. He stamped his feet further into his iron-shod boots. He would ignore the comment, as he was ignoring Aragorn's ridiculous speculation. 'Where will you stand today, Pippin?' he asked instead.

Pippin looked up and Gimli thought his gaze was suddenly a little lost. 'I suppose I will stay with you both and Aragorn if you want me.'

Gimli nodded in satisfaction. 'Good,' he said, weighing his war axe in his hand. 'The Elf needs someone to watch his back. Those Nazgul aren't going to forget him in a hurry and he is a mite careless.' He carefully slid his axe into the harness he wore, and settled it comfortably against his back, ignoring Legolas' protests. 'You have a blade made in Numenor,' Gimli continued. 'It was Merry's blade that undid the spells that held Angmar to this world. The Nazgul will be afraid of you! Stick close to him please, Pippin.'

Gimli flashed a smile that Pippin could not help but return. Then he turned and looked up at Legolas. 'And you, keep your eyes on the battle and don't go wandering off from Pippin and me.'

A wind gusted down from the dark mountains suddenly and trailed cold fingers over Gimli's skin, across his face like spider webs. He shuddered and looked around him. Pippin had pulled his cloak tightly around him and was looking up nervously and Legolas stood tall above them, his keen eyes were trained on the mountains that sheered away to the East.

'We will make a stand today that will make our people proud of us,' he said and his voice was defiant, resonant.

It seemed to Gimli that in the mist that lay about the departing camp, ghosts of Men and Elves stood, like the Army of the Dead had done at Pelargir, and he thought he saw a glint of steel in the mists, and far away there was the sound of horns and the distant echo of a battle cry. It was here, after all, that Gil-Galad and Elendil had stood. He shivered slightly and turned to look up where Legolas stood tall against the grey sky, with the wind lifting his hair and a gleam in his strange green eyes as if he too, saw the ghosts of long dead warriors, Elves and Men.

When Legolas turned there was a fierce glitter in his eyes that matched Gimli's own. 'And should I fall and come at last to the white shores,' the Elf dropped to one knee now and held Gimli's gaze steadily. For a moment, Gimli felt the world slide sideways. 'I will tell the tales of the Fellowship so all shall be remembered. For such a small company we have accomplished...' Legolas drew a breath that seemed to tremble with emotion, '…we have accomplished much.' He put his hand on Gimli's shoulder. 'To my knowledge, which may be not as great as Gandalf's, but to my knowledge, there were no Dwarves,' he turned and put his other hand on Pippin's shoulder, 'or Hobbits, in the Last Alliance. And that is where Gil-Galad went wrong.'

00ooo0o0ooo

Aragorn talked as they packed and saddled the horses. The Lords of the West had gathered around him and the air was tense with anticipation and breathless with unspoken dread. Here they were at the Gates of Mordor with less than six thousand men. Gandalf was quiet and his head was bowed as if in deep thought, and if he was listening, he gave no sign.

'We will leave the old road now and follow the trail along the edges of Dagorlad,' Aragorn was saying. He had a map and followed the line with his finger, resting it against Firefoot, who stood still and easy. Aragorn's own black mount pawed restlessly at the ground and Aragorn found himself wishing with all his heart for steady Roheryn or the well-trained Hasufel. Even he was surprised he had not fallen off. 'Thus we will approach the Morannon from the Northwest and away from the hills that surround the gates. We do not want to be engaging in battle before we reach the gates.'

Eomer shifted and glanced at Imrahil. Aragorn waited, expecting something, a quiet protest, and expression of their foolhardiness.

Instead Eomer said quietly, 'We are all with you, Aragorn. Let this be a glorious stand and if it be our last, it will not be a whimper.'

Aragorn felt a huge surge of affection for this young man, so recently and unexpectedly made King. His courage gave Aragorn hope too and he saw out of the corner of his eye, Gandalf smile slightly, and the wizard stirred as if he had received news for which he waited.

'It is time, my lords. Gird yourselves and mount up. We must draw His attention hither and let that which might creep beneath his gaze do so. We need to hold out as long as we can.'

'Give the order for the men to eat the rations,' Eomer began but Imrahil stopped him.

'No. Let us at least believe we will need something for the return.'

Aragorn nodded and looked at the tall Prince. His elven heritage was evident in the piercing blue eyes that seemed to look into men's hearts, and by the noble and handsome face. 'It will give us heart.'

Imrahil smiled but Aragorn noticed it was not he at whom the Prince of Dol Amroth smiled, but Elladan. Perhaps they had discussed this beforehand, Aragorn thought, for he had noticed that Imrahil had ridden with Elladan many times over the long march.

So the Host mounted and shouldered its weapons and abandoned the wagons now, for they would not be needed. Aragorn made it clear to those within earshot that he intended they return this way to collect them and that spread throughout the Host that he at least expected them to return. There were mutterings from a few, but those doughty enough to remain had already passed through the vale of fear and were fixed in their hearts upon the man who led them, and Aragorn felt a quiver of fear and pride mixed as he surveyed his army. It was enough, he told himself, enough for Frodo...and since Gandalf still believed, it was enough for him also.

00oo00o0o0

The Black Gate was huge. Colossal. Like nothing Pippin had ever seen before. It towered as high as the hills that surrounded them and were heavy steel, spiked like a weapon. Two enormous towers flanked the Gate on either side and when Pippin was told they were called the Towers of Teeth he was unsurprised. All around the approach were huge slag heaps and broken rocks. Gimli tutted disapprovingly at the waste and carelessness. Pippin thought that even the huge siege engines that had assailed Minas Tirith could not dent these huge gates. Even if Sauron left the gate unmanned, he realised, Aragorn and the Host would still be no more effective than if he knocked and asked to be let in. He noticed that Legolas had fallen silent and his eyes were fixed at a point ahead, he had cocked his head slightly and that usually meant he was listening for something. He glanced up and around as the army marched between the mountains towards the Black Gate.

Pippin had stopped feeling anything other than terrified some time ago and he rode behind Gandalf once more and even that did not reassure him. As they drew close, Pippin could see that gargoyles clung to the towers, thin bat-like wings folded and sinuous necks curved down in a terrible likeness. And there were black-shrouded riders too, carved, as he thought, and clinging to the withers of the winged reptiles, still and silent.

He felt his thumbs pricking and the hair on his scalp froze in horror for the wind lifted the black shroud of one rider and Pippin stared, realising that these were no gargoyles or stone, but the Nazgul whose steeds clung to the Towers and even as he watched, one slowly unfolded its thin leathery wings and detached itself from the Tower, lifted onto the air. Pippin could see the Nazgul move its head, searching, as the beast rose upwards, spiraling like a great hawk.

Some of the men of Lossarnach who remained with the Host, looked up and were afraid but the Men of the West followed Aragorn as he rode at the head of the army, tall and determined. Pippin thought he would be proud to stand with Aragorn even if it was his last. As he watched from behind Gandalf, Aragorn and Eomer spilt apart and the Rohirrim followed Eomer and gathered below one of the hills.

'What are they doing?' he whispered to Gandalf. The Men of Gondor were already trudging up one hill and gathering silently. Aragorn urged his horse upwards and then drew to a halt at the summit. He looked across the plain to the Black Gate.

'We will make our stand here, Pippin.' Gandalf spoke quietly, glancing back over his shoulder towards Pippin as they followed Aragorn up the hill. 'Aragorn as you see, will hold that hill and Eomer will hold the other.' He paused briefly and then, pointing further down the sloping land towards the Black Gate, he said soberly, 'The sons of Elrond and the Dunédain will stand between the two, the first line of defence.'

Pippin put his hand over his mouth to stop his gasp for they would stand right in the way, in the front and surely in the first charge they would be swept away. Glancing over to where Legolas was, Pippin realised that the Elf had not heard, he was looking over the heads of the men on foot.

The two sons of Elrond had halted their black steeds, one half turned towards the hill where Aragorn stood and who spoke quietly to Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth who would also make his stand with them. The other raised his eyes and looked up towards Pippin, but he knew it was not himself the raven-haired warrior sought. Pippin glanced at Legolas and saw his jaw was tight and his eyes fixed on the warrior below. Pippin saw how their eyes met and Legolas dipped his head ever so slightly, but his eyes did not leave the face of the son of Elrond. Elrohir.

00oo0o0o0oo

Aragorn had gathered together the Captains of the West upon the first hill and was deep in hurried conversation with Gandalf, Eomer, Imrahil and the sons of Elrond. Pippin stood a little distance away from Aragorn, next to Gimli and Legolas and the Rohan horse sighed and leaned his head against Legolas' shoulder. He was rubbing the horse between its ears and Pippin thought it looked the most at ease and most content of all of them. Legolas held himself with a tension that only those of the Fellowship would know; he glanced up at the Towers of the Gate more than once and his smile had a forced brightness.

'It seems a very long way to have come for this,' Pippin could not help saying looking below them. On the flanks of each of the two hills the ranks of men looked paltry beside the great gates of Mordor

Gimli stroked his shining axe and bared his teeth. 'It is sight I would not miss for a mine of mithril,' he said. 'Standing here at the Gates of Mordor with my good friends, about to witness the ending of the power of the Shadow forever.'

Pippin smiled wanly but could not feel as buoyant as Gimli, or be as enthusiastic as the Dwarf about the prospect of beating Legolas' tally, which he had talked about seemingly for hours but Pippin knew really it was only minutes. Legolas however had fallen silent and simply stroked the horse's velvet nose

'What are they talking about?' Pippin wondered aloud a few minutes later.

'They are holding a council of war,' replied Gimli loudly, so many heads turned. 'Deciding what terms to offer the enemy if he agrees to surrender.'

'Surrender?' Pippin declared. 'Then they must be mad. Look! We can never assail those gates…and who knows what is behind them.' He felt suddenly very small and frightened.

It was then that Legolas stirred. He shifted slightly and looked down at Pippin, his long green eyes serious and suddenly he seemed very old…well, not old, corrected Pippin, just very long-lived. 'You know what is behind those gates,' Legolas said. 'You have seen the field of Pelennor and that was the worst the Shadow had to throw at us. Remember those forces were decimated and Shadow is much weakened.'

He tilted his head slightly in the way he did. 'Remember too, Peregrine Took, you have seen a Balrog and survived. And you have seen battle and survived. You have fought against orcs and trolls and mumaks, men form Harad and the South and East.' He quirked an eyebrow and nodded towards the Tower, and he looked strained. 'You have fought, been pursued by the Nazgul and survived. This must be a stroll through the Shire in comparison.' He turned to Pippin and Gimli with a smile on his lips. 'I wonder if you would like me to light your pipes now or would you prefer to save them for after the battle when you have a nice fat orc beneath your feet. It will be my pleasure to light it for you, if you wait while I kill a few orcs.'

'I will hold you to that, Legolas,' Gimli said just as brightly. 'Ah, looks like they have decided what to do. Look, Aragorn beckons to us. Who does he want, do you think?'

'It will be me, 'said Legolas with forced humour, 'for the Elves.'

'I am sure it will be far more useful to have a Dwarf at his side,' Gimli flashed a challenge.

'Perhaps he needs a sensible Hobbit who knows it is past lunchtime and well on the way to teatime,' Legolas added with a slight smile at Pippin.

'Legolas,' Aragorn called. Legolas shot Gimli a smug look but then Aragorn raised his hand and Legolas turned, his smile wide.

'He calls to us all.' He turned and strode quickly away to where the Lords and Captains of the West stood grouped around Aragorn. And Elrohir was there.

00ooo0o0o

Elrohir stood slightly apart from the gathered Captains and Lords of the West. He was uneasy with Aragorn's decision to go himself as envoy to the Black Gate whilst Elrohir himself and Elladan remained behind with the Host; something about it prickled at the back of his neck and he looked up at the Towers where high above, on the pinnacles, the Nazgul clung like gargoyles. One of the winged beasts moved its serpent head and even from here, he felt its cold predatory eye upon him. They were aware of him. He could feel the slide of their malice, uncoiling and slipping around him. But he was strong now, so much stronger, more aware, and he caught a look from Gandalf and the intensity of the Wizard's blue eyes showed that he too was aware.

Elrohir glanced away, coming to rest upon Legolas, for here at least in part was the source of his strength. The Elf strode up the slope towards the assembled Lords and Captains of the West, followed by the Dwarf and Hobbit of the Fellowship. Elrohir thought him tall and strong, and even in the pale half-light he gleamed. But as he drew closer, Elrohir saw his mouth was not the generous wide smile he had grown to love. It was pulled tight and there was a small frown between his eyes. He saw too that Legolas rubbed his hand over his chest and seemed to be tense, barely holding himself in.

The gathering of the Captains shifted and broke a little to let Legolas and his companions through. Suddenly Legolas turned and saw Elrohir and the tension in his face melted. He smiled his radiant smile, and began to weave his way between the lords towards Elrohir. And then he was there, before Elrohir and pushing past. A warm hand slipped across Elrohir's and a hard, strong body pressed against him as if by accident. A breath ghosted over his mouth but so fleeting it could have been a dream and Elrohir felt immersed in light like walking beneath the beech trees in spring when the new leaves unfurled their green-gold. The Woodelf stopped beside him, and although he stood with his face towards where Aragorn and Gandalf still conferred, he slanted his long green gaze towards Elrohir.

'Aragorn has asked me to stand with him on yonder hill,' said Legolas softly. 'I am of most use up there and can fire into the hordes and at the Enemy above. Where do you stand?"

'In the front line. With my brother.'

Legolas turned to him, lips parted slightly in a breath, and his long green eyes were wide with concern. Elrohir stared back, feeling his warmth and adoration, his desperate love. He wished he had taken those moments, those chances to learn to love Legolas more deeply, physically. But it was too late. Instead he simply breathed in the scent of Spring grass and hay, of ferns and cool forest streams running over granite rocks. He felt the song entwine around his heart and the green-gold threads that wound about him like they could protect him from harm.

'If I fall,' Legolas said softly, 'and I come finally to the white shores of Valinor, I willfind you. And if you are not there, I will search for you, wait for you until the Ending of the World.' He sought and held Elrohir's grey gaze, and smiled with such a young and desperate yearning love, that Elrohir wanted to pull him into a hard embrace, to crush their bodies so close they could not be told one apart from the other. He wanted to press his mouth down onto the generous smile and to keep him close, safe in his heart...

He could not find the words so all he said was, 'Perhaps.' For he so filled with sin and guilt that Valinor surely would spit him out should he seek to set foot there? But he could not bear the thought of losing Legolas forever.

It seemed Legolas read something of that in his eyes for he tightened his grip on Elrohir's arm and pulled him round to face him. 'If I come there,' he said earnestly, 'my heart will know no peace until I find you. I will search everywhere just to hear your voice, to see your face.' His eyes were earnest, desperate.

Then he smiled his beautiful smile that left Elrohir staring at his mouth and imagining his warm mouth on his own. And then Legolas added with a cheeky insolence that was all Mirkwood,'I hear the Halls of Mandos are filled with Noldor.'

Elrohir felt his own mouth pulled by laughter and he smiled, his eyes soft and full of tenderness. 'I hear the Halls of Mandos are filled with Woodelves too impatient to wait.'

'I believe that is true.' When Legolas tilted his head slightly in that way he had, his long hair slid from under his collar where he seemed to have tucked it for a reason Elrohir could not fathom. It fell straight and pale down his back and Elrohir wanted to lift the cool silk in his hands as he had only once before, and let it stream through his fingers.

'Legolas! You have come,' a voice cried. Aragorn had looked up and saw that his friends were waiting for him, and Legolas pulled away from Elrohir slightly. His long green eyes gleamed for a moment, and then he turned and pushed forwards between the lords to stand with Aragorn and Gandalf.

Sparks must be flying from them, Elrohir thought, and he glanced across at the faces of those with them, thinking they must surely notice how the light had changed, how his face was lit with joy. But there was only one who did notice, and met Elrohir's gaze with a challenge of his own; Eomer. The young Man glared at Elrohir with such intensity and hatred that had Elrohir been anyone else, he would have stepped back.

As he was Elrohir Elrondion, Rávëyon, he did not. Instead he looked away from Eomer deliberately and watched Legolas who had his back to him now, but as he leaned forward to speak to Aragorn, his face half turned so Elrohir could see his strong profile, his lovely generous mouth that curved now into a smile at Aragorn. Elrohir let Eomer see that his gaze lingered on the long wheat-pale hair that fell down his straight back, the strong, wide shoulders and lean hips. He heard Eomer shift forwards and noted how the young Man's hand gripped the hilt of his sword. He did not care. Legolas was his now, his beloved.

He dismissed Eomer in his mind and if he was aware still of the glowering looks the Man gave him, he shut them from his mind utterly. He knew that Aragorn would ask Legolas and Gimli and Pippin to join him as he rode to the Black Gate, and to demand that justice be done to the Dark Lord.

Gimli was speaking, his voice rumbling pleasurably at the thought of such daring. 'We will knock on the very gates of Mordor and demand justice be done!' he declared and no one could deny the Dwarf's courage and there was a stir of approval from those men gathered around. But Elrohir felt a sudden sharpening in his concern and unease stirred in his heart. He thought it foolhardy but wished not to gainsay Aragorn in his newfound and fragile command, and he did not quite know what disturbed him so; perhaps it was simply the Nazgul working upon him as they did others.

'And you, Legolas? Will you accompany us on this foolishness?' Aragorn asked smiling but Legolas was very still and the moment stretched while everyone slowly remembered the night in the Houses of Healing when they brought the Elf down from the Minduillion and he awoke screaming.

Elrohir saw the moment it truly dawned on Aragorn's face and he realised what he asked but before he could speak, Legolas said, slowly, seriously, 'Have I not followed you as you bid? I will not fail you now.' The moment was charged with the cost to Legolas of following Aragorn, of the cuivëar, of his terrible encounter with the Nazgul, of the loss of his home whilst he fought far away on the plains of Rohan and on the shores of the Anduin, and now in the bleak ash of Mordor. Elrohir was not alone in feeling the intensity of Legolas' green gaze, or aware of the way his fists were clenched tightly.

Aragorn reached out and clasped Legolas' arm. 'Forgive me, my friend.' Elrohir felt Eomer move as if he were also distressed. 'I have regretted my words over and over and I will not let you think any longer that you have ever failed me...or failed my trust.' Aragorn bowed his head a little and said again, humbly, 'And I know the cost to you of bearing company with me in my hours of need. Never will I forget your sacrifice.'

'No, do not speak of sacrifice. I came willingly and there are others whose sacrifice is greater. It is why we stand here,' Legolas reached down then to squeeze Pippin's shoulder slightly so the Hobbit looked up at him and smiled bravely. 'I go with you as I have from the start of the Quest, in fellowship and as a representative of my people.' Legolas smiled but to Elrohir, he suddenly seemed unbearably sad, and he thought of Legolas' people and what Aragorn had told him they had seen at Orthanc, the trees aflame and Thranduil dead.

Gandalf nodded then and that simple act of acknowledgement drew all eyes to him. 'Then Legolas shall be for the Elves, Gimli shall be for the Dwarves and Pippin will bear witness for the Shire.' Gandalf's voice was resonant and deep so that all who heard it felt renewed in their hearts. 'Let us go with all haste and summon him forth, and as Gimli says, let justice be done!'

Suddenly all about Elrohir broke. Aragorn was shouting to his Dunédain and calling for his horse, Eomer too pushed past him with a sharp glance and there was no mistaking his intent.

But so quickly afterwards that it forced everything else from Elrohir's mind, Legolas brushed his arm briefly as he passed and caught his gaze. A shudder of longing and desire flooded him and he felt himself stiffen instantly and his loins were liquid. Legolas paused for a moment, looking deeply as if he knew, and that he gazed into something wondrous, into the depths of his soul, and then he was gone, striding down the slope and calling to the Dwarf and Hobbit to join him.

Elrohir closed his eyes briefly for there was no time left. All was chaos around them. Men were leading the horses away from the battleground for they were useless here; this would be hand-to-hand combat and there was no space or point in the charge. The men simply turned the horses loose and sent them cantering, galloping away, chestnut, grey and bay hides. He saw his own black Barakhir amongst them, cantering, wheeling about to search for Elladan's Baraghur. All but the horses of those who were to ride to the Gate were there, and those horses turned restlessly and whinnied to their departing kin. Elrohir turned back and amongst the crowd of running, hurrying soldiers, he sought his brother.

Imrahil had gathered his knights between the two hills, forming the front line, and the Prince himself stood at their head, his surcoat of blue fluttering in the wind and his white cloak billowed. His banner of azure with the swan of Dol Amroth was raised above him and streaming in the wind. But standing even before the front line of the swan knights, and ahead slightly of Imrahil himself, stood Elladan. The wind pulled his long black hair back from his stern and noble face and his cloak pulled out behind him. One hand rested on his silver shining sword and the other hung loosely by his side. He stared at the immense black gates as if he could burn a hole through them. So might Gil-Galad have looked, Elrohir thought proudly as he watched Elladan. The Prince of Dol Amroth took a step forwards then and stood beside Elladan, and his hand brushed against Elladan's arm as if by accident, and Elrohir was reminded that Legolas had done the same to him. But where Legolas' touch had made him startle and set a fire in his veins, Elladan merely turned his head slightly and smiled.

'They have become close,' thought Elrohir surprised and he wondered when that had happened. Too self absorbed, he berated himself and resolved that all would be different after the battle, should they live. That sobered him and he strode forwards, passing Imrahil, and stood with his brother. When Elladan turned slightly and spied his approach, he took a step towards him and clasped him, so Elrohir felt a great surge of affection and gratitude.

'Shall we stand together, you and I?' Elladan asked as if it were necessary and Elrohir laughed for the joy of being welcomed by his brother who had such reason to hate him.

'Do not think I will ever be parted from you,' he said and he did not mean it to weigh so heavily for Elladan drew back and gasped in relief.

'Then you have made your Choice?' He clung to Elrohir like he were afraid he might lose him and Elrohir caught the Song that soared in Elladan's heart, his calm blue shimmered and deepened so it became indigo, rich and deep with joy, almost unbearable in its intensity. 'Ah, how that cheers my heart before this dreadful battle. I was certain you would choose the way of Men and today we would be parted until the Ending of the World.'

It was impossible to speak and not shatter the gladness in his brother. Elrohir smiled instead and hid his fear, his doubt. It was too hard to say that was not what he meant, and he knew it was this that had prompted Elladan's forgiveness of him; the loss he faced should Elrohir choose the Way of Men. And, he asked himself again, what if he should fall today, and had not made his choice? What of Legolas and his oath that should he come to the white shores, he would search everywhere, to wait until the end of all things if he needed to...Elrohir squeezed his eyes shut for a moment; he could not ask it, and yet, he did.

Elladan continued unaware. 'Always you have walked the paths of Men and seemed closer to the Dunédain than the Elves. If it is Legolas who has brought this about, then I am forever in his debt.'

Elladan then pulled him close, tenderly, and Elrohir thought that this was his beloved brother, who had forgiven him when he should not be, for Elrohir believed that he himself of all people deserved the least and had been given the most. He could barely speak for the love that embraced him, by Elladan and Legolas and he rested his head on Elladan's shoulder and said nothing. How could he do otherwise?

Standing slightly apart from the brothers but watching intensely with his piercing blue eyes, was Imrahil and Elrohir thought he had not deceived the Man.

But he would not destroy Elladan, not now. If he fell, then he would be forced to decide, but for now, he lived and he could delay a little longer.

'Let us show them how we treat the enemy,' he murmured and Elladan smiled back, loosening his hold on Elrohir, and clasping his brothers' arm. Elrohir swept his cloak aside, unpinned the Dunédain star with one hand and tossed the heavy sable cloak to a squire who ran forwards to catch it with awestruck eyes. Together the brothers strode out to the front, beyond the line of the swan knights, beyond any of them. Their long hair was raven-black as their armour gleamed in the dim grey light, mithril runes on their cuirasses were molten swirls and Elrohir rolled his shoulders and swung his sword a little, dark Aícanaro glittered darkly, ferocious and hungry.

He heard well the intake of breath as the ranked Men of Gondor and of Rohan, those sons of Eorl with whom they rode many centuries ago, realised the sons of Elrond stood with them, the Sons of Thunder, and they stood before any of them, in the front line and they were long lived and would inspire such fear in their foes.

Pale sunlight struggled through deepening cloud, lit on their armour and shields so it seemed for a moment there was more light, but then a shadow sailed high above them. The shadow brought more than simple darkness. Around them, some of the Men quailed and cried out and Elrohir turned his eyes upwards...and as he watched, the Nazgul's beast wheeled high above, like an eagle, too far even for an elven bow, and he turned to see Legolas swing himself astride the Rohan horse, effortless, the power in him like steel.

The Nazgul passed over Elrohir like a cold wind, and he saw Legolas too look up and his lovely strong face was stricken. Elrohir felt the stroke of malice against his mind and turned towards the high spires of the Towers that reached up into the twilit sky like taloned fingers. Upon the turret six other gargoyle beasts clung and watched, roosting silently, carved from stone. Whatisyourplannow,ohgreatones, he said silently, sardonically, and let them drift into his thoughts, into his half-dreaming. While he stood back and watched, he let his hand fall upon the hilt of dark Aícanaro.

He felt their loss, their lessening. Khamûl, Angmar. Both fallen. And now those seven ancient kings, the Nazgul had thrown off the cloak of disguise, revealed themselves in his mind and he saw them, dark shapes, warriors and kings of ancient times, ancient power, their robes were merely shadows and he saw them clearly. Their helms were dark and hid their eyes and he was glad of that. In their mailed fists they clenched heavy swords, mighty blades the equal, he thought, of Aícanaro.

Seven that were Nine…

An iron crown appeared in his half dreaming. It waited. For him. And a ring of cold iron waited too. Cold power. Old power.

We will come for you. The Lord of Darkness awaits.

A flicker of firelight on warm flesh, painted skin, and a lean body writhed in torment and ecstasy, head thrown back and long pale hair streaming down.

Elrohir smiled thinly; ,,ofAngmar,ofKhamul,youlesserwraiths, he thought deliberately contemptuous and heard their outraged hisses and smiled.

He turned to Elladan and bared his teeth.

'See how the Enemy quakes! Those lesser shadows sit like ducks on that Tower,' he said loudly enough to be heard by those on the slopes of the hills. He raised his hand to gesture to the Nazgul, clinging still to the high, high towers. 'We have but six thousands and yet they fear to come from their tower! Like shy maids who fear for their virtue!' That raised a slight, astonished laugh from those men behind him. Other men then craned their necks to see the legends that walked out of the mountains in their time of need and who laughed in the face of the Enemy. 'They are passing coquettish, do you see? A sly peek, a flutter...one comes forth to see and then scurries back to the other maids, too shy to come forth? Sauron is naught but a tease!' There was a cheer and some of the Rohirrim clashed their swords against the shields.

The wind lifted his black hair, pale light gleamed on his armour but on dark Aícanaro it did not shine and he rested his hand upon the hilt and felt its dark power sink into his flesh. They were weak. Their loss diminished them. Now they were seven and they had been Nine. Weak. Diminished.

A flare of anger.

Suddenly he felt them leave him, the pressure of their regard fell from him and he almost sagged against his brother. At first he thought they realised they had done with him, but their attention had merely shifted. Imrahil had led his grey horse away towards the small group gathered nearby, Aragorn and his heralds and Elladan had turned to see. In Elrohir's mind though, he felt the sharpening of their interest, and the Nazgul that wheeled above, turned its great winged lizard and sped back towards the Towers where its Brethren clung to the pinnacle.

Narrowing his eyes, Elrohir watched. It was not he from whom they fled. No. For there was a whisper of fear and anticipation. The Ring. It was here.

His eye widened slowly. They believed Aragorn had the Ring...Elrohir was aware of movement and colour and shapes before him but it was like looking through coloured glass and unreal. A trap about to be sprung...

Even as he realized, he saw Aragorn and Gandalf gather with Imrahil, Eomer and Gandalf. Legolas was nearby, leaning down listening to the Dwarf, his long hair fell around him and the Dwarf was gesturing to it in irritation. Legolas laughed and the sound carried clearly to Elrohir so he felt it strike his heart. And he stood for a moment, staring, fixing the memory so it would be with him forever in case... in case he needed it again. Above them all Baelderon the Dunádan, had raised Aragorn's banner and it streamed out in the wind spooking Aragorn's black stallion when the Man was trying to mount. The horse turned restlessly, shaking its head as the Man hopped beside it, one foot on the ground and one in the stirrup until Eomer held the horse and it calmed and stood still. Aragorn looked up gratefully at the Rohan King who was laughing, enjoying his discomfort as were others, as if oblivious to the danger.

Elrohir raised his hand, 'Aragorn!' he called to warn him. They must not approach the Gate - they waited for him, it was a trap, lulling him into a security that did not exist, making him believe the gate was closed, that Sauron slept or looked inwards...

'Aragorn!' Elrohir shouted, and strode between the men towards them. Elladan turned and frowned, and then swiftly followed him. Aragorn turned and seeing Elrohir's approach, he took his foot from the stirrup and stood waiting. The black horse snorted and tossed its head, pulling at the reins that Eomer held.

'Aragorn!' he called again. 'Stay a moment. You must not go.' His eyes fastened on Aragorn's and the man hesitated. 'This is a trap,' he insisted, and reaching Aragorn, held out a hand and rested it on his arm to stay him. 'Do not walk blindly into it. Let Mithrandir and me go, but you should stay here. They think you have IT and you will be almost alone up there. At least play for time.'

Eomer turned his horse in a small circle and regarded Elrohir with hostility. 'Why do you speak now, Lord Elrohir? You were silent in our council.'

Elrohir did not look at the Man at first and then slowly raised his eyes to where the Rohan King sat astride his chestnut horse. He returned the gaze with equal coolness. 'I have sensed what the Nazgul will do,' he said.

Eomer brought his hand up dismissively. 'You have sensed?' he almost sneered but Elrohir could see there was more hurt in his voice than contempt. 'That is not enough. Do you have some connection with them that we do not know of? Do you have some sort of pact with them?'

There was too a gasp and murmur of approbation from Imrahil but Elrohir saw the blaze in the Man's eyes and so close he was, that anyone else would have looked away.

'Eomer!' cried Aragorn.' This is my brother!'

Elrohir held the Rohan King's gaze steadily. He knew what he had done. He had owned his guilt and it was for no one else to judge him but those he had harmed. And he had not harmed Eomer. That was Legolas' to own.

'Tell me, my lord Elrohir,' Eomer said and he swung down from his horse to stand close to Elrohir. 'How is it that you returned from the Mindolluin unscathed and yet Legolas was barely alive, screaming at the mere memory of his ordeal?' He stood so close now that Elrohir could feel the Man's warmth, and feel his hot spirit. 'How is it that you were returned without a scratch? I ask again, what is it about you that the Nazgul pass over you with barely a glance and you think now you can parley with them unharmed?

Elrohir did not answer but deliberately let his gaze move past Eomer and rest upon Legolas where he stood some way off. The Elf had lifted his head and looked towards them now, his fair face was troubled and strained, and Elrohir knew that this hurt he had caused Eomer still pained him, but the Nazgul's closeness also put unbearable tension upon him for he rubbed his hand over the dreadful wound in his chest and winced like it was still bleeding.

Eomer turned and followed his gaze for a moment and Legolas froze. In the moment, only the three of them existed, separate points in the moment but inexorably linked by loss and guilt.

'Ask what is in your heart,' Elrohir said so softly that only Eomer could hear and Elrohir saw the unexpected flash of hurt in his eyes, his intense youth and his intense hurt at what he had discovered those nights ago in Aragorn's tent. It had burned him, and the Healer in Elrohir could feel the hot roil of loss and hurt and rejection. But he was not the one to soothe and Eomer would not accept it either. 'It is not I with whom you are angry.'

'It is you who seduced him from me!' Eomer retorted softly for only Elrohir's ears, a blaze in his eyes and he stepped close enough that Elrohir felt the Man's heat. Aragorn moved as if he would step between them and Elladan arrived, looking worried, and caught at Elrohir's arm.

'Whatever this is, there is enough for us to face together without turning on each other,' Elladan said urgently, glancing an appeal at Aragorn. But Gandalf suddenly seemed to stir himself.

'Enough of this!' he tutted impatiently. 'I will go and summon the envoys of Sauron. Aragorn will stay and Elrohir will go with me.'

There was a mutter from Eomer and his lip curled in contempt. 'I do not trust him,' the young Man muttered under his breath.

'Well you will just have to trust me,' Gandalf replied acerbically and he shoved the white robes impatiently back out of his way and gave a sharp whistle for Shadowfax. 'Elrohir, come. I do not like to waste time.'

Elladan stood to one side. He had taken the reins of the black stallion and held them lightly. The horse stood calmly, its head slightly lowered against Elladan's shoulder.

'I will take this difficult beast off your hands,' Elrohir said with a wry smile at Aragorn, who looked suddenly young, and he saw Estel looking out at him from tangled hair and bright, curious eyes. His heart twisted again and he grasped Aragorn's arm. 'Be safe, brother.'

He turned and found Elladan close, and he held Elrohir's gaze for a long moment and then stepped close to Elrohir. 'Be safe, my soul,' he said quietly and Elrohir felt sudden prick of tears. He squeezed his eyes shut for the surge of love he felt for Elladan. How could he be so generous, so noble? 'I find I cannot face the world without you.' He pulled Elrohir into a sudden embrace and Elrohir felt the calm blue peace envelop him but there was such loss and longing in that light it caught his breath.

A moment later he had swung easily astride the black horse. Shadowfax had already struck out from the Host and Gandalf glanced over his shoulder briefly, impatiently. A sudden shaft of light pierced the heavy clouds and shone through and he thought he heard a sigh on the wind. He did not turn but clicked to the stallion who pranced once and then obediently trotted and then fell into a slow canter after Shadowfax. Elrohir knew Legolas watched aghast and called to him but he merely turned and dipped his head slightly and rode on with not a backward glance, for he had etched in his memory a warm hand slipping across his, and a hard, strong body pressing against him as if by accident. A breath ghosting over his mouth but so fleeting it could have been a dream and being immersed in light like walking beneath the beech trees in spring when the new leaves unfurled their green-gold. It was enough.

He felt the Nazgul's sharpening interest and felt their cold regard, the slide of their malice. They were breathless with anticipation. He walked into a potential trap and he knew it was a trap. They wanted him, and they had waited for him.

TBC

The next chapter is pretty much done so I hope to post it next weekend. Then there will tow more chapters I think and we're finished, for now anyway.

Notes

pig-iron: Pig iron is the intermediate produce of smelting iron ore with a high-carbon fuel such as coke, usually with limestone as a flux. Charcoal and anthracite have also been used as fuel. Pig iron has a very high carbon content, typically 3.5–4.5%,[1] which makes it very brittle and not useful directly as a material except for limited applications. (Wikipedia) For the dwarves, pig-iron is a useless waste product.(ziggy)

* heavy trophy etc refers to a scene in Deeper in which Saruman shows Legolas a vision of Mirkwood in smoke and flames and Thranduil's body is hoisted on a spear. Gimli was of course at Orthanc when this took place.


	39. Jaws of Steel

Disclaimer: as usual. Not mine, just playing.

Beta: The amazing and gorgeous Anarithilien. Thank you so much for the huge amounts of time you are so generously giving to this. So much more than a beta.

 

Chapter 39: Jaws of Steel

 

Legolas walked down the slope towards Arod. He felt a frisson of fear at the thought that they would be riding to the Black Gate and even though he would have Gimli at his back, he could not help but fear the proximity of the Nazgul upon his fragile and shattered nerves. He could not bear the thought of showing his weakness so publicly and although he could not remember screaming in the Houses of Healing, he remembered his throat feeling raw and his voice being hoarser than any Elf's should ever be. But Aragorn had asked it of him and he could not refuse the Man anything.

No one else seemed to share his fear, for Gimli was declaring loudly how he expected the Enemy to surrender and sue for was actually strolling with his thumbs in his belt, looking for all the world like a battle-hardened veteran instead of the terrified Hobbit he had been only moments before Aragorn had made his request. But Gimli's fierce delight at facing the Enemy at his own gates buoyed him up, and he thought how like a Woodelf Gimli was! The Dwarf stroked his axe, and rolled his shoulders and planted his feet squarely on the earth and was all fire and confidence. He could see too, the great wisdom Gimli had; as much as Legolas had about all things living, Gimli had wisdom about stone...so when Gimli turned his head slightly, listening, Legolas paid attention.

'I am not happy about this, Legolas,' he confided quietly and Legolas leaned towards him. 'The stone slides and moves, a pebble falls when it should not, there is a slight rockfall...' Gimli shook his head slowly. 'And yet, everything is silent and still. The Enemy is within his gates and seems to sleep...'

Legolas turned his head towards the mountains and his sharp eyes scanned the crags and cliffs. He thought he saw movement high up and narrowed his eyes, searching intently.

'Aragorn!'

The beloved voice called from higher up the hill and he turned, distracted, to see Elrohir striding after Aragorn, calling to him. The Man turned and Elrohir caught his arm, a hurried, urgent conversation. Legolas frowned and he saw how Aragorn paused, considered and looked again at Elrohir speculatively. Even Legolas could not hear and he shifted forwards lightly. Then Eomer joined them, gesturing angrily and Legolas felt a creeping alarm at the ferocity in Eomer's stance, his wild gestures, his face. At Legolas' elbow, Gimli was speaking, his voice careful and tense, but Legolas did not attend. Instead he took a step forward, unaware of how his hand drifted to the wound in his chest. The cold seeped into his veins slowly, slowing him, slowing his movements, stilling his thoughts...dulling him and blunting the keen senses.

'Legolas, do you not feel anything?' Gimli pulled insistently at Legolas' arm until the Elf tore his attention away from Aragorn and back to Gimli. 'The stone moves but not the shifts and settling of quiet stone. It moves and sings as if it bore a great weight, a mass. I cannot account for it. It surely is not yon black rider that circles like some great carrion crow,' he said, nodding upwards at the silent bat-like creature that swooped across the sky. Legolas stared, feeling all the hair on his body slowly rise. How could he have not noticed it so close? His skin shuddered like something cold and damp had crawled across him.

'Should you not shoot it out of the sky?' Gimli asked.

Legolas shook his head slowly, following the great beast as it wheeled slowly overhead. 'Aragorn said to let them look, let them see us. After all, we here to distract the Eye, so let us do this... Gandalf seemed to agree.'

'Hm. I am not sure I do,' grumbled the Dwarf and he tugged the ends of his beard anxiously. 'The more you bring down the easier it will be.'

'I think Aragorn would rather play for time, make us appear more confident of our strength, encourage the Enemy to believe we have a secret weapon perhaps?' Legolas let his gaze drift around the rugged peaks and crags, lingered on the hidden valleys and passes. He thought there was a glint of silver and narrowed his eyes to see more clearly, leaned slightly toward the crags to hear if that was a slide of rockfall or the scuffle of iron-shod feet.

The shadow of the Nazgul swooped lower and fell over him...

And it felt like the spear of ice plunged into his chest. He cried out. It struck again, ripped a little at the thinning silver-blue veil, the gentle protection that Gandalf had put between him and the horror of the Nazgul, of the Eye. The dreadful blade pierced him again, freezing his blood and tearing his flesh. Suddenly what had been hidden from him was revealed and all thoughts of glints of silver in the crags was gone...

...A flat reptilian head slick and wet in the rain...…he, breathless with fear, heart pounding, stumbling backwards…and tall shadows moving, sliding, coalescing into one tall shape. A blade was drawn from its sheath with an unearthly ring. In the lightning that struck all around them now, the sword gleamed like mercury.

The ice blade pierced him through and tore at the veil. Dread bubbled in his chest and gripped his heart, and memory after memory unfurled inexorably.

Arod nickered anxiously and turned his head to regard Legolas with his brown eyes. Gimli plucked at his sleeve and called to him, but Legolas bowed his head, oblivious to everything, and squeezed his eyes closed against the fear and dread…Everything else, Eomer, Elrohir, Gimli, the unnatural silence and stillness, the glint of steel amongst the crags, all were lost in the agony of ice-cold seeping into his veins, the heavy press of the Nazguls' iron will and the promised agony to come, blinding him to all else but this...

...A cold blade sliced across his cheek and another burned along his arm. Three blades pierced and cut and tore his arms, thighs, his chest, his belly... felt his shirt flutter and knew it had been rent and tattered...one dark blade pointed at his breast…

Legolas almost crumbled, doubled over, but Gimli caught him now, clutched at him, his warm earth-brown steadfastness enveloping him. The drifting remnants of the silver-blue veil fluttered and parted a little more

...the Dwarf lying on the hard cold ground and a shadow standing over him, blade pointed at him, and Legolas himself...where was he? Standing nearby, poised to flee. He could have run but had not...he could not find his blades...and the wraith had forced him back...plunged its cold, cold fist like steel, like talons into his chest and gripped his heart...

No! This is not real!

The shadow passed overhead and flew high over the gathered Men. He took a gasping breath that seemed to burn its way into his throat, chest, lungs, and then gasped another and caught at Gimli's square, clever hand that was warm, like a forge, an iron-strong will that kept him anchored, kept him from falling. He managed to stand upright, leaning hard on his friend's shoulder, and his hand trembled as he covered his eyes. Gimli was speaking, calling to him anxiously, but he could not focus on that now. All he hoped was that he had moved beyond the dreadful screaming that had undone him and diminished him in his own eyes, but he knew, deep down, there was more...and then the Nazgul would return. Already the winged lizard had sliced a great arc in the grey sky and was wheeling back towards them. He felt drained, fragile and he knew his hands trembled as they should not but he forced down the bubble of terror in his throat, tore his fear away from the Nazgul for he knew it merely fed their hunger. Instead he looked across to where Elrohir spoke with Aragorn, forcing his attention on that, desperately seeking the strength he had had all those years fighting in the Forest.

He bowed his head, trying to think, to focus on something other than the dread that approached. There had been something... a glint of silver amongst the crags, a scuffle of iron-shod feet...

All light was suddenly obliterated. Great serrated wings spread across the sky. A cold thin shriek had the men covering their ears and looking up in fear.

…A slow burning along his nerves, a cold that burned and was terrible...he braced himself as they drew back their swords as one, poised, he thought, at last for the final thrust, eyes closed and teeth clenched waiting for the pain that would signify his last breath…

He gasped and clutched at his chest, and the shadows thronged, clung to him now, tangled him in darkness.

…A thin spear of ice sliced into him, piercing his heart. He felt the world tremble and shimmer and then the burning, ice cold of the Nazgul's blade in his heart...and beyond that, a red fire threatened, a greater evil that would boil his blood and melt his bones...

I see you...

...A radiant shadow appeared at the edge of the circle of fire...

'Aícanaro, you have come for him'...

And suddenly there was a different voice. A song that rose about him like it had been submerged, the cry of eagles and the smell of snow on the clear, frost-laden air...and he could breathe. The cool snow-struck air soothed his raw and burning skin, his throat...

'You will not have him! He is mine!'

He felt the stroke of Elrohir's gaze, felt the sea-grey eyes fall upon him with a softness that was not gentle but demanding. It drove out the cold and he lifted his own eyes to meet them.

'Legolas. Beloved.'

He bowed his head and felt the pressure ease and lift. He could breathe and the cold did not burn anymore. Instead he felt a soft warmth, a crimson warmth, envelope him. Love enveloped him. His heart pounded but with a different beat, excitement not panic, and the warmth that flushed his skin was not burning but was instead a glow of desire and tenderness. Elrohir.

With the strength that came to him then, he shoved away the agony that threatened, that lurked just beyond. He would not look beyond, would not part the fragments of the torn silver-blue veil that floated before him. There was worse beyond them and he was too fragile. Instead he forced his gaze to lock onto the beloved sea-grey eyes. His lips parted slightly as he breathed not quite a sigh. Elrohir held his gaze, cradled it in his with tenderness and Legolas felt the terror ebb and the stillness surge slowly back. The Nazgul were gone and he was himself again. It was over.

'Legolas?' Gimli's concerned voice finally penetrated and although he felt brittle with fear and the threat of pain, he forced himself to attend; there had been something...something important. 'Legolas? Are you well? Sit down for a moment. ' He remembered that it was Gimli who had brought him back from the Mountain... but he already knew this.

'Legolas? You don't look so good,' Pippin reached up and patted Legolas' arm, sympathetic and concerned. He tried to smile at Pippin but it must have looked ghastly for the Hobbit looked even more concerned and patted his arm again. 'It's all right, Legolas,' Pippin said soothingly, almost knowingly, 'you're safe now.'

Legolas almost laughed. Here they were, sitting on the doorstep of Mordor, right at the Morannon where thousands of his kin had been slaughtered and Pippin said he was safe. But he recognised the bitter hysteria that was bubbling up in him and ruthlessly he quashed it, seeking the iron control that should have come so easily to him and yet now eluded him. His father and brothers would be ashamed, he told himself sternly and he glanced across again at Elrohir, hoping that his beloved would not see him so undone.

But Elrohir looked straight at him, his grey eyes focused on Legolas, lingered on him with possessive desire, and standing beside him like a reproach, was Eomer, full of loss and yearning that Legolas knew too well. It struck him anew with tender guilt and he closed his eyes, wishing with all his fragile heart he could undo that moment in Aragorn's tent.

Suddenly Elladan stepped between the two and at the same time, Legolas felt Gimli tug on his arm. And so he glanced away from the hurried conversation, the angry exchange that continued between Eomer and Elrohir, and he was only partly aware of the lingering gaze.

'Legolas, what did you see up there?' Gimli pulled his arm insistently and Legolas frowned. 'Before... A moment ago. You were looking up in the crags. You saw something.'

Yes, he had been thinking, realising something... the glint of metal, silver, steel... the sound of a rockslide, small stones sliding... And it was all too quiet, too still...

A thought resurfaced now but he felt a choking cry fill his throat, as if a mail-clad fist had closed around him. A shadow swooped over him, plunged him into darkness and he knew the dreadful wraith was above him again, scything another great arc across the sky. And then he turned and stared at Gimli. He felt such horror, but the words would not come and he choked on the silence. Suddenly the shadow passed and he was aware again of Elrohir, for Elladan had pulled him into a tight embrace as if Elladan were afraid and full of doubt. Elrohir swung astride Aragorn's horse and the black stallion shook its head and turned in a tight circle. Gandalf too was astride Shadowfax and yet Aragorn, Eomer and Elladan all remained standing and looking up at Elrohir and Gandalf.

Jaws of steel...

The thought slid easily between his own, but he knew it was not his. And he read the Nazgul's intent. This was a trap!

THe great serrated wings swooped overhead again, and around him Men looked up panicked, but Legolas' hand flew to his throat as the breath was squeezed from him.

Seven who were Nine. We will be Nine again. An iron crown lies empty. A ring of power awaits.

The shadow plunged him again into darkness and Legolas felt the solid ice freeze in his chest and pressed his hands over the wound, struggling to stay on his own feet. His hands were sweaty, clenched into fists above his chest and he felt so cold…he thought his blood would freeze. Breath died in his mouth and the words faded. He forced himself to open his eyes, to reach Elrohir, to pull him back...He opened his mouth...But the cold mailed fingers strangled the cry in his throat.

Shadowfax cantered slowly along the dusty barren field towards them, the white horse and rider seemed to shimmer in the half-light. A little way behind him, Aragorn's black horse pranced once and settled into a trot, easing into a slow canter.

'Legolas?' Gimli pulled at the Elf's arm now hearing his distress but Legolas shook him off roughly and lunged forwards, lifting his own hands to his head as if he could ward off the dark magic that assailed him... He tried to cry out but all sound froze in his throat as he stumbled forwards. The dark shadow crossed him briefly and he felt the thump of his heart, racing, the pound of blood in his veins, the thundering in his ears and he could not hear anything else. His skin felt the sudden heat and when he breathed it seared and burned in his lungs... The Nazgul circled high above him, the thin shriek pierced the air and Legolas clenched his fists even tighter to stop himself from covering his ears. He struggled forwards.

Elrohir did not pause, but barely turned and dipped his head as he cantered past. A sudden glance of sunshine caught on Elrohir's cuirass, turning the mithril runes molten, and his long black hair streamed behind him. Legolas stared, desperate, adoring, reaching out as he passed. The black horse shook his head, tossed his long mane, straining to overtake Shadowfax.

He could not speak, no cry, not a sound could he force from his throat.

'Legolas?' Gimli, huffed beside the Elf and caught his sleeve. 'Let them go. Gandalf knows what he is about and you cannot do everything yourself. Aragorn must have decided we should stay.' He tugged on his beard and fidgeted slightly, then said, 'I for one am glad you are not going. The Nazgul are never far from your thoughts and after what happened...' He trailed off but Legolas barely heard him. He gripped himself enough to gaze after the two horses as they cantered slowly beyond the ranked Host. The Dwarf's voice seemed distant, like he was underwater or caught in a storm.

'Legolas?' the warm earth-brown voice persisted and he felt himself pulled back. 'Come back, Pippin is worried about you.' He barely heard Gimli's words; they were drowned out by a slow spreading of wings.

The Úlairi were watching. Breathless with anticipation. Silent. Waiting. An iron crown lay empty. A cold iron ring waited. They wanted him.

Rávëyon.

This was a trap. Elrohir and Gandalf walked blindly into it and there was nothing he could do.

A shadow passed over Gandalf, then over Elrohir where he galloped way out from the waiting host, far beyond them, beyond any help. The Nazgul wheeled high above, and its shadow skimmed over the grass towards Legolas. There was the swoosh of thin wings, a high scream from above and he followed it shakily as it came for him again

No more, he thought to himself. No more.

He pulled an arrow from his quiver and trembling fingers fumbled with his bow. He always seemed to be fumbling now. All his elven grace and speed seemed fled. There was shouting somewhere over to his left but he shut it out, focused on his clumsy hands, his thick fingers, his pounding heart.

They are coming. They are coming!

Fear and dread and he could not move quickly enough. It was like he had been on the cold mountain. He had not been able to stop them then. And now it was Elrohir they wanted.

Time itself seemed to have slowed, and every moment took an age. His heart beat slowly, thumped loudly. He turned and lifted his eyes upwards, arrow fitted, trembling at his bow, and he sighted along it.

Distantly a voice cried out, 'Legolas! Shoot it! Shoot it now!' It seemed to come from faraway, another battle. Above, the huge outstretched wings, thin and leathery, pounded the air, sped towards him. The Nazgul moved its shrouded head, looked down and opened an iron-clad fist, turned the palm downwards upon Legolas ...And it felt like the sky rained fire. His arrow clattered to the ground.

I see you.

A clever square hand sought his and anchored him a little but it was too far, too much and the cold morgul blade twisted, cut his feä and he gasped and clutched his chest. The cold seeped through him and he wanted to sink to the stony ground. He could not speak, could not breathe.

A morgul blade…

And then he remembered. Everything.

The cold blade that sliced. And the Eye...the Eye that opened on him...and it burned his skin, boiled his blood, melted his bones and he had screamed until his throat was raw and his voice broken. A radiant shadow stood apart on the edge of the clearing, fought for him.

He felt himself sway and a voice of velvet warmth spoke and a hand on his arm steadied him. Elvellon. They had sneered at him. But it was Gimli he had stayed for on the mountain when his spirit had almost fled. Yes. It was Gimli. The warmth of the Dwarf was close and his hand fumbled and groped for the hand on his arm and gripped it tightly for a moment.

He sank to his knees and buried his head in his hands. He could not withstand them another moment. And so they entered, silently paced, thin black shrouds falling about them, their broadswords held before them and they surrounded him as they had in That Place, swords were leveled against his breast and their cold blades ripped apart the melting, fluttering remnants of the silver-blue veil. And he saw everything.

See. Rávëyon betrayed you.

Thin black shrouds wrapped them but he could see them beneath the shroud...they were terrible. They stood silently and one raised its skeletal hand and showed him...On the mountain...He saw Elrohir, standing on the high ridge, the storm around him flattening his cloak against him and the lightning and rain...Words like black threads caught in the wind and trembled there, caught around Elrohir. Wet in the rain, they stuck to him like a web, a spider's web and burned his skin...

...Aícanaro gleamed in Elrohir's hand, the mithril runes that swirled and leapt along the blade, an invocation. Legolas saw how that long black hair fell over Elrohir's face, and he looked up and closed his eyes, a thrill of power thrumming in the wind, a long, soundless call into the night. And Legolas saw, as if it were held in front of him, the One Ring, hot with power, the strange lurid runes melted on that liquid surface as it burned, burned and molten. He saw the words appear on the Ring as he had seen once before…and Elrohir opened his eyes, seeing them too, and his lips moved as if he had no power to stop them …

'Ash nazg durbatuluk,'

The world stopped. Legolas held his breath. No! It could not be! Elrohir was there to protect him! He was the milui-criss!

'Ash nazg gimbatul.'

Like a long sigh, the wind suddenly stirred and brushed through the treetops in the valley and on the slopes below, whirled around the mountain peaks. The thunder rumbled threateningly. Legolas turned as Elrohir opened his mouth and called into the wind once more...

'Ash nag thrakatuluk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.'

The words kindled and Legolas saw them become like flames, hot, then burning in the air, like cinders. But Elrohir did not stop. The wind howled about Elrohir, flattening his cloak against his body, storming the treetops so they waved and tossed like grass on the plains. He raised his head to the skies, threw his head back in the wind that pulled his hair into a long streaming black mane. He fixed his gaze to the dark heavens that lowered and roiled overhead, and lightning shot in his eyes.

Elrohir stood firm against the wind and Legolas thought he looked inwards, let the darkness wind around his soul, and he thought that Elrohir had let the shadow slither and coil about his limbs, enveloping him in its velvet darkness… Elrohir spoke again, more strongly, more loudly, summoning them…

'Ash nazg durbatuluk,

Ash nazg gimbatul,

Ash nag thrakatuluk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.'

And it seemed to Legolas that part of Elrohir was screaming, part of him was howling. But he would not stop though the wind swirled and buffeted him on the cold mountainside, as if it sought to tear the words from his mouth before he could speak again…

Elrohir shouted against the wind a third time…

'Ash nazg durbatuluk,

Ash nazg gimbatul,

Ash nag thrakatuluk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.'

Legolas thought he was screaming but his mouth was tightly closed and his throat sealed. He could not speak, knew there was someone pulling at him but he could not move. No. Not true, he cried. The black shades did not move. He was still in the place of fire and burning. You lie. You deceive as does your Lord. Why would he summon you? Why would he betray me?

But their laugh was like grating iron, rusted with blood. Their amusement cruel and interested. Fool! You are his yôzâira. You are his prize!

He saw something, and at first he did not know what he saw...And then slowly he realised...it was himself. In the darkness he was bound, his arms held high above him and he struggled...

...Fire and flames rimmed the darkness, and in the hellish glow his skin felt on fire. There was wet trickling down his skin, his thighs, his wrists, his mouth... he was bound, struggling, half-naked with his breeches pulled down over his hips, helpless. A radiant shadow stood on the edge of his sight and flames reflected in those grey eyes. A hand drifted over his naked skin, lower and stroked across the burning welts already there. There was more blood on the hand that stroked him, trailing fingers through the blood, through the swirling painted yára-carmë, following the lines of the runes and swirls. Suddenly he was gripped hard around his lean hips and dragged forwards. And then with a sudden thrust, he was impaled helplessly on the spear of flesh so it tore and he thought he was screaming but his mouth was closed, sealed. Fingers tangled in his long hair and dragged his head back, muffling the silent cries with a mouth he had once wanted on his. Elrohir raped him.

Legolas stared at nothing. He knew it was true. He had seen it. It had been shown him on the Mindolluin when he had been in thrall to the Nazgul. Elrohir had been standing outside the triangle when he had been cut with the Morgul Blade, and they had showed Elrohir their promise, his own body, blood-streaked, writhing in pain and desire, raped, abused, betrayed.

He tasted salt and thought of the Sea. His face was wet and he felt himself break a little more.

TBC


	40. The Mouth of Sauron

Thanks to reviewers as usual- there seem to be fewer and fewer so you are especially important in encouraging me to keep going when its hard. In these last few chapters- and I thought it would have been finished by now, I want to get it right so its probably a few more than I thought.

Shine lots, Alanic (your wish is my command!) Marchwriter, the L-word, Muse10, Alex Dark-Serpent, leralonde, Melusine, Wherever Winter Fell, freddie23, Caelhir, tanbo(welcome back!) Spiced Wine. Elladan and Elrohir fans- this one's for you!

Beta: the incomparable Anarithilien. Please read and review her story Dark Forest on the MEFA website. Voting closes soon.

Disclaimer- as before

warnings as before

 

Chapter 40: The Mouth of Sauron

 

Legolas felt the Nazgul leave. Silent, they faded, melted and left him hunched forward, on his knees in the dirt and his fists clenched against his heart. The burning agony faded and left him panting and breathless. They were destroying him slowly from within. It had begun with Saruman's cruel vision, and then in Minas Tirith, the Nazgul had speared him with its cold lance, and thrust him into Elrohir's waiting arms, for it seemed all too convenient now that the Nazgul had spared them both.

Legolas felt his hand drift to his throat for he remembered now...he and Elrohir had come so close to love that night. Eomer had burst in and he, fool! had pursued Eomer. A true elven memory opened up now and he saw the cold morning that followed, he stood beneath the abandoned washing strung above him on iron balconies, streaked with ash and strangely poignant, felt Elrohir's hands around his throat, his fumbling cruelty, heard the word scorch itself onto his skin. Whore. Ai, how could he have forgotten? Everything had seemed lost then, with Elrohir so full of rage and hate at his seeming betrayal.

Legolas let his hair fall around him now, screening him alike from anxious or curious eyes. How willingly he had gone to his supposed fate on the Mindolluin! He had followed Elrohir trustingly, though he had been scorned and dismissed. Elrohir, whom he had called beloved, had led him onto the Mountain, knowing he would not deliver the milui-criss, had instead summoned the Nazgul, had stood and watched as he was cut by the morgul blade. He had wanted to torture Legolas and had imagined, desired to violently rape him! Legolas squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head as though he could loosen and rid himself of the vile images shown him by the Nazgul. But tenderness had been there when he awoke in the Houses of Healing to find Elrohir with him, he remembered such gentle and passionate love. He had found the same tenderness when he pulled Elrohir from the ledge above Osgiliath...He paused and found himself pulling at a loose thread of the sleeve of his tunic. Before they had plummeted over the ledge though, Elrohir had spoken of rape ... said he would destroy Legolas, called him Yôzáira...

None of it made sense. First dark hate and scorching cruelty, but then at the brush of Elrohir's fingers, such tenderness and love filled him he found himself breathless, melting...His thoughts circled and doubled back and lingered over one idea or another, bewildered and confused.

It had been Gimli however, who brought him back down; he remembered the Dwarf being suddenly present, his deep Earth Song calling, reassuring, soothing him...

And here again was that same Earth Song, the deep chanting voices low, like the mountain's heart, the regular beat of a hammer and slowly, gradually, Gimli's voice penetrated his awareness. He could not distinguish words, for his blood still roared in his ears, and he could not speak for he felt the bruise of Elrohir's hand against his throat, or the mail-clad fist of the Nazgul, he could no longer tell. Gentler hands lifted him and liquid poured into his mouth. A familiar presence nearby and a blue calm poured over him like balm, like moonlight on still pools and he felt a healing peace wash through him as if it might cleanse him and he could suddenly breathe. Faces became distinct and he discerned the voices...

Gimli and Elladan leaned over him, and Legolas stared at the latter for a moment, his grey eyes, long black hair and pale, noble face so like Elrohir's. He lifted a pale hand and covered his eyes for he did not want to see...

'What happened?' Someone asked.

'The Nazgul dived at him over and over. Did you see?' Another voice murmured nearby and Legolas knew he was not intended to hear but he could not help it. Suddenly it was too hard to be amongst so many Men. He felt overwhelmed, with too many people crowding in and he pushed back, away.

He felt a strong arm behind his shoulders and he leaned against someone familiar. 'Give him some air, for Béma's sake!' A hand lifted his hair to one side and held a cup to his lips that he might drink.

Cold, pure water soothed his throat and cleared his head and he struggled to alertness for he felt there was still more to come. There was a promise lingering in the Nazgul's fading presence.

We are not done with you, Thranduillion.

He knew then that something worse for him than Orcs lurked behind the Black Gate, and he found himself hoping that if it came to it, at the end, the Orcs would get to him first and finish him off before the Nazgul...before Elrohir.

Legolas bowed his head and surreptitiously wiped his eyes, whether it was sweat or tears he did not know now, nor much care. He thought again that the Enemy was slowly destroying him from within...

He leaned back gratefully against the comforting body behind him, which was strong and familiar and let the warmth seep into him. He tried to make sense of what had happened; he had been convinced it was Elrohir the Enemy was luring to the Gate. But Elrohir had summoned the Nazgul to the Mindolluin...

'I thought it was a trap...' he murmured. 'There is a trap but...' He shook his head, confused.

'A trap?' It was Elladan who spoke, leaned over him again, and Legolas felt the calm blue presence wash through his own terror and soothe him. 'What did you see?'

Legolas squeezed his eyes shut and his hand flew to his chest but it was not the morgul wound that hurt, but his bruised heart. That image of himself tortured for Elrohir's depraved lust was still burning in his memory. Yôzáira. The Gift of Longing. He was the Nazguls' promise, the reward for Elrohir if he delivered the Ring, the lure into darkness. He was Elrohir's downfall.

'They want Elrohir,' he said in a low voice to Elladan and it was a struggle to speak. 'An iron crown. A cold ring...'

He felt Elladan freeze.

'Yes...they assailed me also,' he said quietly for only Legolas to hear, 'but I was not sure I understood.' Briefly he laid his hand on Legolas' shoulder and a cool healing soothed his nerves, a touch of peace, and then Elladan's calm presence altered, and Legolas felt his attention shifted elsewhere. Treacherously, he wondered what would have been had he fallen for Elladan, and when Elladan glanced back down to Legolas, there was an ocean of kindness in his eyes. 'Rest. I will bring him back.'

A strong, hand gently pulled him back against the warm hard body that supported him, and reassuring words murmured in a familiar, deep voice comforted and unsettled him in equal parts. 'Peace Legolas. Elladan has gone. He will deal with it, you have done enough.'

It was not Gimli's voice. His hand rubbed his chest and he wished the sensation of being cut would go away and he looked down. A long, copper-bronze hair lay on his tunic, not his but as familiar as the broad chest against which he leaned and he suddenly realised who it was. Eomer.

He felt Eomer's breath on his skin, and slowly, almost timidly a hand stroked his hair. Legolas sighed and kept his eyes low for he felt his face burning. He had damaged Eomer enough.

He chanced a quick glance up at Eomer and winced at the breathless hope in the tender brown eyes. Eomer stilled his hand and then pulled it slowly back.

'I should have known,' he said miserably, quietly. 'He has bewitched you.'

Legolas tried a small smile but Eomer stared at him as if he were starving.

He lifted his hand then and touched Eomer lightly on his cheek. 'I told you it was only what it was and no more.' Legolas glanced up to see the hopeless misery in Eomer's eyes and could not bear it. 'Forgive me,' he begged and he almost caught the Man's hand but he knew he should not.

'I would do anything you asked of me,' Eomer declared in quiet passion. 'But I will not give up hope. You will see him for what he is. I have heard that he attacked you at Linhir.' He clasped Legolas' shoulder tightly. 'I would have killed him had I been there and he raised a hand against you.'

Legolas pushed himself away. 'No. It is not how you believe. That was a moment of...' He groped for the words to describe that moment of furious anger but lapsed instead into his own tongue for the silvan tongue knew this furious lust and passion that burst into violence. 'It was annan-breitho.' He struggled to stand, his head spun and he swayed unsteadily.

Eomer scrambled to his feet, reaching out to hold Legolas but Gimli was already there, a steadying arm around Legolas' waist and Legolas clung to him.

'What have you been saying to upset him like this?' the Dwarf demanded of Eomer. Eomer's eyes flashed at the challenge and he glared down at Gimli.

But Legolas shook his head and put his hand out to Eomer though he appealed to Gimli. 'He did not mean anything...' he said and cast a quick glance at Eomer and as he caught the hurt on the Man's young face, he looked away. 'Let us fall not to fighting between ourselves - it would give the Enemy comfort.'

Gimli gave him a long hard look and Legolas steeled himself to meet the Dwarf's searching gaze, drew down the stoic mask of the woodelves. 'I am recovered and the Nazgul withdrawn.' He rested his hand on Gimli's muscular arm but he hated his weakness, the way his hands shook and made him useless.

Gimli sighed and looked away. 'Well I can see you are going to be stubborn about this,' he said. 'But you can hardly stand on your own two feet,' he said. 'Elladan has already gone to Aragorn. They will warn Elrohir.'

Eomer gave a pained, contemptuous laugh but Legolas ignored him, followed the Dwarf's gaze and saw that Elladan was running towards Aragorn, shouting, gesturing urgently. He stared, oblivious to all else for a while, until he became aware of Gimli's insistent pressure of his arm and the Dwarf's anxious voice.

'Are you able to stand on your own?' Gimli was asking him.

He looked down blankly for a moment for he felt like he had been wounded, and fear still crept around the edges of his heart though the Nazgul had withdrawn. 'I am,' he answered as steadily as he could, although his head spun and he swayed a moment. Gimli caught his arm and again, the Dwarf's Earth-Song chimed deeply through him, its resonance like a bell striking deeply in the heart of the mountain. It steadied him a little, let him catch the echoes in his heart and he felt the scald of tears prick his eyes.

'You need to retire behind the lines, Legolas,' Gimli said soberly. 'You are not fit to stand, let alone fight.'

Legolas blinked the tears away. The suggestion that he could run and cower while his friends fought the final battle was more than he could bear.

'You think there is anywhere safe? Do not send me away,' he said and hated the pleading in his voice when he could see Elladan and Aragorn running towards the remaining horses, shouting to others. I should be there, he thought. Imrahil was already mounted and some of his knights rode with him and they milled about waiting for the rescue party to assemble.

He was aware too that whilst Eomer had been drawn away by one of his men, the young king glanced over in his direction more than once and he turned his head slightly away from the burning reproachful gaze for he could not bear it.

Looking carefully at Legolas, Gimli sighed and said softly. 'Aye, he still carries a torch for you, my friend. Be careful...'

'Legolas.' He was startled out of his misery by Pippin, who had drifted back towards them and stared out over the plains in the direction of the Morannon. 'I can see something... Gandalf has got something...'

Legolas slowly lifted his gaze to the Gate, for it felt heavy and weighted down somehow as if he fought against a will stronger than his own. He narrowed his eyes and saw that Gandalf was holding something in his hands and bent over it. Legolas' sharp elven eyes could see the unmistakable glimmer of mithril and he wondered what it could be...something in the way Gandalf had hunched over it and bowed his head made him think of great sorrow...

'What is it? I can see something shining. But I cannot see what,' Pippin asked and Legolas had forgotten how sharp were Hobbit's eyes. 'It looks like...' Pippin whispered.

Pippin looked up at Legolas and there was the same despair in his face that Legolas felt in his own heart, knew was in his own eyes and masked it quickly. 'It's the mithril shirt, isn't it? It's Frodo's...Does that mean...Is he dead?' Pippin seemed frozen with horror and Legolas wanted to comfort him, but he himself could barely stand.

Gandalf had become very still and Legolas could see he was intent and listening... The world was still, quiet and the Song ran beneath but was muted, watchful; it had not faltered, it had not distorted. Yet.

'If the Shadow had It, we would know,' his voice sounded cracked and rough. 'The Dark One would not be so patient but would have destroyed us before now.'

Pippin managed a small smile then and Legolas glanced anxiously towards Aragorn, where a small group gathered.

Why were they so slow? he thought weakly. Did they not realise the Nazgul were preparing to pounce upon Elrohir and take him for their lord? But immediately, he thought perhaps this had been the Enemy's plan all along...and another, even more treacherous thought rose unbidden; perhaps Elrohir had been planning this? Perhaps it was his intent to bring them all here and to betray them, even as he had betrayed Legolas on the Mindolluin...His heart surged with despair and he found his hand clutching at the suede fabric of his tunic.

000o0o0o0oo0o0

Elrohir cantered after Gandalf, the black horse he had taken from Aragorn blowing and pulling. It was a good beast, he thought, for he felt it was afraid but it was keen and willing to trust its rider.

You should be called Kathuphazgân, conqueror, he thought, for it had conquered its fear at his asking, and he could not simply keep calling it "the horse"! He felt it lift its head in pride, and steel its heart at the proud name. Smiling to himself, he stroked its neck soothingly and Kathuphazgân it was. Even when one of the Nazgul flew overhead, wheeling in a great arc above them, Kathuphazgân did not falter but cantered easily alongside Shadowfax. Elrohir glanced back once over his shoulder and saw that the Lords of the West were gathered at the foot of the hills but he could no longer see Legolas and he did not have time to search for him. He turned again to face the Black Gate and thought how he followed his father, for he too had stood before the Morannon long years before, with Isildur, and now his son stood with Isildur's heir. And Oropher's grandson too.

Gandalf cast a sideways glance at Elrohir as they rode together into jaws of steel, half-knowing, with echoes from the past all about them.

Ahead of them, the Gate towered. Like a mountain in its solid purpose. Above, clasping the pinnacles of the towers on either side of the Gate, the Nazgul were gathered, their winged steeds like gargoyles. He counted six. One slowly stretched its sinuous neck and the cold reptile eye regarded them. There was no wind now, no sound. It seemed utterly still, utterly silent. Waiting. Watching.

There was such heaviness in the sky now and what little light there was seemed to fall upon Gandalf then and Elrohir saw he truly was Olórin. The Wizard's white robes seemed insubstantial, more light itself than cloth. Elrohir lifted his eyes to gaze upon the Wizard's noble, ancient face...and he glimpsed fleetingly, a silver-blue presence of such great age and wisdom and love...and Elrohir thought he understood how it must have been to stand in the light of the Trees in those ancient times before the world was spoiled, felt it shine on his face. This warrior wizard, come from Valinor.

'This is my task,' Olórin spoke gently to Elrohir. 'To defeat Him. Ever have we two been entwined, and I must defeat his darkness else all the light will be quenched.' It was so practical, so softly done and full of an ancient sorrow, that Elrohir wondered what more there was here, but it was the briefest of moments, and the light dimmed and there was only Gandalf, his great power and wisdom cloaked once more in flesh and blood and robes.

Elrohir was still staring when Gandalf inclined his head and said a little gruffly and more like the Gandalf the Grey that he knew, 'Well, what are you waiting for? Summon their envoys.'

Elrohir hesitated for only a moment before he urged Kathuphazgân to the Gate. He made his voice resonant and deep so it reached up to the ramparts, rolled around the empty valley, crying loudly, 'Come forth! Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth!' He knew his cry would be heard by the watching Nazgul on their winged reptiles, high on the Towers of the Gate, and heard too by those he loved standing far back amongst the army that challenged the might of Sauron at the very gates of Mordor. 'Let Justice be done upon him. For wrongfully has he made war upon Gondor and wrested its lands.' He paused and licked his lips and then he took another breath and cried aloud, 'Therefore the King of Gondor demands that he should atone for his evils, and depart then forever. Come forth!'*

There was a long silence and from the wall or gate no cry or sound was heard in answer. Only one of the Nazguls' steeds lashed its tail but nothing more.

Elrohir stared up at the ramparts on the Gate but there was no other movement, no sound. Not even the wind stirred He looked at Gandalf who sat astride Shadowfax, stock still and listening. Still nothing.

Elrohir was about to suggest that they turn away when the silence was suddenly broken. There came a long rolling of great drums like thunder in the mountains and then a braying of horns that shook the very stones and stunned men's ears.*

Elrohir looked up alarmed and then at Gandalf but the Wizard held his ground and merely lifted his head. It seemed like a breath of wind drifted over the Gate, a darkness and Elrohir almost thought he heard a whisper, Olórin... But his nerves were jangling and he thought he must have imagined it for Gandalf gave no sign, just looked steadily ahead of him, piercing blue eyes focused on the Gate.

A slow creaking sound began then, of wheels turning, cogs grinding and the huge Gate began to move. A grim red light slowly seeped at first and then flooded out through the crack of the Gates, like bloody fire it spread its heat upon the earth. Elrohir stared through the gaping red mouth into Mordor itself and as his eyes adjusted, he saw through the fiery haze, hordes and hordes of glittering spears and pikes and helms and shields glinting, thousands upon thousands...and a dark tower rising above the hellish glow, like a colossus poised above them or a mountain it seemed so immense, impossible that it could have been built. Barad-dûr. It reached high, high above, vanished into the heavy clouds that clung dark and gloomy about its pinnacle and Elrohir was glad they shielded him from what he had heard of only in tales. The great lidless Eye of Sauron. Even though it was yet hidden, he felt its horror so great that he wanted to turn and flee. Poor Kathuphazgân trembled beneath him and it was for the horse's sake as much as his own that he stilled his pounding heart and caught his breath.

Thunder rolled from the Gate, a heavy beat and from the demonic red glow emerged a hideous parody of a horse, as much a parody of a horse as an Orc is of an Elf. It was huge, bigger than the great black cart horses Elrohir had seen in the Northern Kingdom long ago. Its skull-like head was a mask and its eyes rolled in the sockets, red-rimmed and unearthly. A man, if it could truly be called a man, was mounted upon it, robed all in black like the Nazgul, but this was no wraith. This was the Lieutenant of Barad-dûr whose name no man knew for he had once walked in Numenor before it drowned. Upon his head was a black helm but the visor was slightly raised and Elrohir could see his mouth was lipless, more like a slash across the snarling, cadaverous face.

The horse-creature stamped heavily and the dust beat the air as it advanced, accompanied by braying trumpets and heavy drums. Behind it was a small company of armoured men and one bore the banner of the Eye.

Elrohir glanced again at Gandalf, but the Wizard met the hideous envoy's eye and did not look away. When the envoy spoke, his voice was like grinding bone.

'I am the Mouth of Sauron.' The words seemed to echo for all they were not spoken loudly, as if a hidden power lay beneath them, a sorcery so the voice was inside Elrohir's own skull. 'Is there anyone here with authority to treat with me? Or indeed with wit to understand me?' he mocked, turning to Gandalf with scorn. 'Not thou, old Greybeard. Have we not heard thy whiles and wanderings, ever hatching plots and mischief at a safe distance? But in this thee hast stuck thy nose too far, Master Gandalf... Olórin...' and he said the name with absolute contempt. 'Thou shalt see what comes to him who sets his foolish webs before the feet of Sauron the Great, who has always been so much more than thee... I have tokens that I was bid to show if thou shouldst dare come.'*

He signed to one of his guards who came forwards bearing a bundle swathed in black cloths which he handed up to the Mouth, bowing low and avoiding looking at the hideous face as he did so. The Mouth took the bundle with a wicked and gleeful glance at Gandalf as he shoved apart the black cloths. Elrohir caught a glimpse of gleaming silver, but the light slid over it and around it so he knew it was mithril. A cloak which he knew to be the cloak from Lorien was there too. Pinned to it was a small silver wrought leaf such as the Marchwardens wore and Legolas too had one pinned to his cloak. Elrohir realised that these tokens must be from Frodo and his heart pushed its way into his mouth.

'Elf-cloak, Dwarf-coat, blade of the downfallen West and spy from the little rat-land of the Shire - nay! do not start! We know it well. All the marks of conspiracy.'*

Elrohir saw Gandalf from the corner of his eye, absolutely still, and it seemed a blackness had descended on him and his face was turned away. He himself felt suddenly sick and a crushing despair descended on him; the Quest had failed. Frodo and Sam must be dead. Strangely his first thought was how Legolas would mourn their loss and then he realised what it truly meant and he wanted to put his hand over his mouth to stop himself from screaming. Sauron must have the Ring. It was the End of the world.

The Mouth sneered. 'Now maybe he that bore these things was a creature that you would not grieve to lose, and maybe otherwise: one dear to you perhaps? If so, take swift counsel with what little wit is left to you. For Sauron does not love spies and what his fate shall be depends now on your choice.'*

Gandalf raised his eyes to stare at the small bundle and in them was absolute despair. Elrohir bowed his head. All this was for naught. They would fight to the bitter end of course, but it would merely hold Sauron for a moment before he swept away the world. Their despair was not lost on the Mouth for his lipless mouth stretched in a grisly smile.

'Ah- I see he was dear to you. Or else his errand was one that you did not wish to fail? It has. And now he shall endure the slow torment of the years as long and as slow as our arts in the Great Tower can contrive, and never be released, unless maybe he is changed and broken so that he may come to you and you shall see what you have done. This shall surely be - unless you accept my Lord's terms.'*

'Name the terms,' said Gandalf steadily but Elrohir saw the anguish in his face.

'These are the terms,' said the Mouth with gloating triumph. 'The rabble of Gondor with its deluded allies shall withdraw at once beyond the Anduin first taking oaths to never again to assail Sauron the Great in arms, open or secret. All lands east of the Anduin shall be Sauron's forever, solely. West of the Anduin as far as the Misty Mountains and the Gap of Rohan shall be tributaries to Mordor and men there shall bear no weapons, but shall have leave to govern their own affairs. But they shall have help to rebuild Isengard which they have wantonly destroyed, and that shall be Sauron's, and there shall his lieutenant dwell; not Saruman, but one more worthy of trust.'*

Gandalf said, 'This is much to demand for the delivery of one servant: that your Master should receive in exchange what he else must fight many a war to gain!' Elrohir looked up for Gandalf's voice was strong, ringing and unbowed. 'Or has the field of Gondor destroyed his hope in war so that he falls to haggling? And if indeed we rated this prisoner so high what surety have we that Sauron, the Base Master of Treachery, will keep his part? Where is this prisoner? Let him be brought forth and yielded to us and then we will consider these demands.'*

The Mouth opened his lips in a horrible sneer. 'Thou shalt regret this, old man. For that is all thou art. Take these for what little comfort they will give you,' He threw the small bundle towards Gandalf who caught it and pulled it tightly to himself, hunched over it slightly and his head bowed. 'Think on his torture due to your folly!'

Elrohir gazed at the Wizard and saw that he was not as distraught as he looked. Indeed there was a gleam in his blue eyes that pierced a small sliver of hope in the darkness of Elrohir's despair and he narrowed his eyes. Surely these tokens had been taken forcibly from Frodo? Or from his small cold body? This one leaf of Lorien...He paused. One cloak...one servant?... Sam was still alive? He clenched his teeth against the thought that he could be wrong, and sent all his hope winging upwards on the West wind.

The Mouth had not finished though. He leaned forward, resting his hand on the pommel of his saddle. 'But thou, Rávëyon, for what purpose dost thou debase thyself crawling here amongst these creatures, craven and weak?' The hideous steed upon which the Mouth was seated raised a heavy hoof and pounded upon the dry and barren earth. It moved its dreadful skull-like head and the tangled knots in its mane swung so that Kathuphazgân shied briefly and snorted in fear and loathing. Gandalf was very still and leaned forwards slightly as if listening.

'Thou knowest what thou art.' The Mouth seemed to smile but it was a grimace, a leer. 'They await thee. They would put upon thy head an iron crown, on thy hand an iron ring. They would make thee their Lord...' He lifted his crooked, claw-like hand as if to dismiss the Nazgul. 'They are nothing without thee. They need thee in the way dogs need a master. My Lord would make thee their Master as he would be thine.'

Elrohir felt a cold squeeze round his heart, a scream crawled its way into his throat and closed his mouth, fighting it.

Gandalf moved and Elrohir felt a calm descend upon him, the panic ebbed and left him clear-sighted. He thought he heard a voice, far away, a Song that lifted him, it came from the West and it was full of hope. 'This will not happen,' he found his voice and surprisingly, it was strong and steady. 'I am Elrohir Elrondion,' he said, gathering all the contempt he could muster, 'I serve no master!'

The great monstrosity that was the Mouth's steed, stepped forwards and tossed its grotesque head, lifting its lip to reveal yellow incisors and stringy saliva drooling from its lips. The Mouth raised his fist as if he would strike Elrohir and there was an edge of fear in his voice. ' Not mastery, fealty then. Thou hast brought Ash Nazg to him. We can feel it...it is close. He is pleased with thee. He will raise thee above all others, make thee a King.'

Elrohir did not move but he saw Gandalf from the corner of his eye, the Wizard had closed his eyes and bowed his head at the news that the Mouth had given them; Sauron believed the One Ring was close, and Elrohir let Pippin's image drift a little in his mind and he felt the quickening of interest from the wraiths above. He gave thin smile. 'I do not want to be King. That is for others. But give me the spy from the Shire and I will think upon it.'

At this the Mouth pulled back suddenly and declared, 'Thinkest thou to bargain with Sauron the Great? It is a gift he offers. He will not give this troublemaker and pestilence any comfort!' He gestured at Gandalf who had lifted his head now and regarded the Mouth with his clear blue eyes, and though Gandalf said nothing the Mouth snarled suddenly and glared at Elrohir. 'Thou wilt march at the head of my Lord's great army with thine iron crown, thine iron helm and crush those whom thou loved. Thou wilt have no choice then. Thou wilt break them, every one, thy cowardly father, thy beloved brother. Thou belongst to us! Thou art one of us.' The Mouth leaned closer and the slash of his mouth stretched wide like he would devour Elrohir. 'Son of Elrond...Thy father will never understand how thee stood and watched!'

Above them, on the spires of the Towers that flanked the Gate, a slight movement caught his eye. A slither of a wing, a thin serpentine neck stretched downwards, a thin black shroud fluttered. And was still.

Elrohir recoiled then as Gandalf turned his head to stare at Elrohir, but he steeled his heart for he had done this dreadful thing, this terrible sin. He did not bow his head; it was not Gandalf to whom he owed any confession. It was to his brother he had owned his sin, but he knew he owed this to his father too. But he could not speak of this to Elrond. He had hidden his crime too well and if Elrond believed he and Elladan rode out on errantry to revenge themselves on the Orcs who tormented their mother, he had thought nothing more than to let it be. It had been so easy to convince him, and the greatest healer in Middle Earth had been so lost in his own pain, he had not thought to seek the truth. Never had anyone questioned Elrohir's honour, would not have believed perhaps that Elrohir, at least in part, sought to bury his savage guilt in bloody violence .

But he had admitted it to Elladan who had chosen to forgive him. It gave him the strength to speak now. 'You say nothing. My brother has forgiven me my crime and I have owned it.'

'But thy father will not forgive thee as easily as thy brother,' the Mouth observed cruelly, and it was clear he enjoyed this sadistic taunting. 'Thy brother is all strength and goodness it seems...And thou art all darkness and shadow.' The Mouth leaned towards him, the ugly mouth turned upwards and Elrohir saw the sharp yellow teeth, like a wolf's teeth, bared in a horrible grin. 'Thou art so sure of him...but he watches thy yôzáira too. He desires him...' The Mouth leaned closer and Elrohir felt his foul warm breath, and the stench made him gag.

It was true, he had seen it. And Elladan who had never before desired a man, looked at Legolas. It was not the hunger he felt himself- no, that was different. Elladan was pure. There was nothing in him but love, and he wondered briefly, should he step aside and let Elladan be with Legolas.

'There has to be light to cast the shadow. He is my light,' Elrohir countered, and he lifted his head defiantly. He had conquered his dark lust after all, had he not?

The Mouth laughed then as if he could read all Elrohir's secret thoughts. 'Art thou afraid to test him more? Does he know the whole truth of it?' The Mouth tilted his head in horrible parody of Legolas, as if it knew what he did. 'Does he know what thou imagines?'

Elrohir felt hot shame but he would not look away, he held the man's eye and struggled for mastery. 'I do not answer to you, slave of Sauron, and I do not answer to him either. I will answer to those against whom I have sinned. But it is not for you to call me to account!'

'Noble sentiments!' the Mouth leaned forwards again and there was the wash of foul breath. 'But thou knowest how to hate, and to desire power over another...Thou wishest to have the whelp of Azgarâzir serve thee? He is thine.' The Mouth showed his sharp unnatural teeth. 'Thou hast such power and hunger. Thou wilt have dominion.' And though the smile was terrible and horrific, it seemed the voice had changed, was no longer the voice of the Mouth but another voice that caressed him, would love him, would set him above all others...Elrohir found himself leaning towards the Mouth a little, listening as he believe. It was easy to imagine...

'Elrondion!' a sharp voice cut through the miasma that tried to wind about him. 'You are assailed.'

But he was already aware, was already pulling himself back for he did not want that. There was nothing he wanted from Sauron. 'No,' he said with steady certainty. 'We are done here.'

The Mouth urged his steed closer to them and Kathuphazgân snorted and bunched up beneath Elrohir, but he willed the horse to stillness and the valiant steed held his ground though the abomination was close enough for him to feel its hot breath. 'Thou art more kin to us than them. Thy mannish blood, even thy weak Noldor blood... How thou wilt fret in that sterile Valar-ridden land where there is nothing but the boredom and petty politics of the elvish houses vying to sit at Manwë's right hand and pass his wine and salt, bickering amongst yourselves as to who is most favoured!'

'And it is different of course, amongst the servants of the darkness,' an acerbic voice cut through the malice. Gandalf.

'So thou hast not forgotten how to speak, old man. But of course, thou art a servant thyself of the self-styled Valar. A lesser being, one who has not aspired to greatness. I have wondered long about thee, for my Master speaks of thee...often.'

There was something strange in the way the Mouth said this but there was nothing in the Wizard's face but implacable sternness.

'Of old have I known your master,' said Gandalf and his voice was steady now, certain and it was a pronouncement of doom. 'I have sought always to bring him back to the Light. But he is far beyond that now. Ever did he seek to serve Melkor merely to overthrow him. He learned all he could and then abandoned his defeated master to raise himself to 'greatness'. Such 'greatness' as he seeks is a betrayal of all he is, he should be. A worm in the world, he eats away at it slowly, but he will never be more than that. A worm. Cast into darkness he shall be. And forgotten even at the end of time. And you, his servants now, you seek the same. To grow fat upon his malice and then to overthrow him, set yourself up in his place. Tyrants, and us your mere slaves!'

'Tell thy yôzáira then,' the Mouth ignored Gandalf, and let his lecherous gaze linger on Elrohir, 'tell him thou couldst have saved them all. Tell him. His father, Azgarâzir has fallen beneath the eaves of Agannâlo. His body,' the Mouth pulled back from yellow teeth, sharpened like fangs, 'His body was a trophy for the Orcs. I have been told how he hangs still on the spire and is picked by crows...Elves can last a very long time... his father did...but when he saw what we did with the children his heart broke... He no longer howls.' The Mouth sat back, tilted his head again as if in parody of Legolas, self-consciously mocking by its repetition, and his lipless mouth split in a leering grimace. 'Tell him; when we have taken you, and your brothers and kin lie dead and bleeding, I will have thy yôzáira.' He sketched a mocking bow. ' I will break him in front of thee. Racked and broken, I will have him. And when I have tired of him, I will turn him over to the Orcs as a plaything. Elves can last a very long time. As his father did.'

'Enough!' said Gandalf suddenly. He cast aside his cloak and a white light shone forth like a sword in that black place. Before his upraised hand the foul messenger recoiled and Gandalf held up the tokens, cloak, coat and sword. 'These we will take in memory of our friend, but as for your terms we reject them utterly. Get you gone, for your embassy is over and death is near to you. We did not come here to waste word in treating with Sauron, faithless and accursed; still less with one of this slaves. Begone!'

The Messenger's face suddenly twisted in amazement and anger to the likeness of some wild beast that crouches on its prey, is smitten on the muzzle with a stinging rod. Rage filled him and his mouth slavered and shapeless sounds of fury came strangling from his throat.* But a sudden wind swept Elrohir's hair streaming out behind him and Gandalf's white robes were flattened against his hard old body. The Nazgul came.

'Fly!' shouted Gandalf and Elrohir paused only seconds to glance upwards, saw the outstretched wings swoop and the wind caught him and threw him flat against his horse's neck as the Nazgul plummeted into him.

It was too much for Kathuphazgân and he broke, whinnying in terror and tearing off into a flat gallop across the plains. Elrohir leaned low and whispered to him that he should fly as he had never done before. He was aware too of a blinding white light around and above him and thought it must be Gandalf, but suddenly something hit the horse with the force of an explosion. He saw the ground rising to meet him and he was tumbling head over heels into the dust, grit and stones tore along his face and hands and the earth knocked his breath from his lungs. He stopped. No breath in him, lungs heaving, winded and above him a huge shadow, serrated leathery wings outstretched and a mouth of thin sharp fangs snapped.

Suddenly the blunt flat head pulled back, squealing. It thrashed its wings and keeled to one side, its reptilian head weaving and snapping, an arrow was sticking out its pale throat and all was chaos. Intense blue, almost indigo, enveloped him, wrapping him in its protective song. A roar sounded from behind, in front of him and a pounding of thousands of feet charging forwards but his sight was filled with a deadly shadow, a thin black shroud fluttered, the Nazgul rose up before him from the cloud of red-rimmed dust.

We have come for you, Lord. Rávëyon. You are ours.

Cold, cold iron awaited him, would burn his hand, be forced upon him, and he shook his head, dizzy with sudden cold and a thrust of power through his mind. All shapes and definition faded and it was as though he looked though coloured glass. He knew that. It had happened before. The iron would burn, and the dark lust within him that he had conquered would raise its head and he would become what he feared. It made his head clearer and he groped for dark Aícanaro and pulled him ringing from the sheath.

I am Rávëyon.

Aícanaro hissed with power and pleasure.

Suddenly there was chaos.

0o0o0o0o0o

Elladan's borrowed horse whinnied and pawed the ground, catching his rider's impatience to be off. He hefted his frost-white sword in his right hand, seeing how light seemed to shimmer along the blade. Unpinning his sable cloak, he dropped it carelessly on the ground for it would slow him down, and a boy ran out from the milling ranks to scoop it up. His heart pounded with anxiety, with the need to be moving, and he looked towards the Black Gate where he could clearly see Elrohir urging Aragorn's restless, frightened horse closer to the envoy of Sauron. His brother was leaning towards the grotesque figure, shouting or arguing he could not tell, but his danger was unbearably clear. A flutter of a thin black shroud high above, on the Towers of the Gate and the intense focus of cold malice upon Elrohir was enough. One Nazgul flew overhead, had been weaving back and forth, cutting a scything arc in the sky above the assembled Host.

A hand laid on his leg and he tore his eyes away from the Nazgul and looked down. It was Aragorn, dread and fear in his eyes. 'Bring him back to us, Elladan,' said Aragorn earnestly, 'but you must come back too.'

Elladan nodded curtly but his impatience was growing. 'I can wait no longer!' he cried to Imrahil, and urged his grey horse forwards.

The horse pulled at the bit and tossed his head, Elladan did not hold him back and the horse leapt forward into a gallop, streamed out from the ranks of the Host towards the Black Gate. The wind pulled back Elladan's long raven-black hair and his mithril armour gleamed in the half-light. He galloped down the sloping hill and onto the plains, dust kicked up behind him and he heard the thunder of hooves as the knights of Dol Amroth fled after him. He knew Imrahil would be nearby and he felt a strange comfort in that, for they had become close. But he had no time to think on that for Elrohir was in danger.

An iron crown. An iron ring.

He will be raised above all others. Seven that will be Nine.

And you will serve.

He knew the lure of power, of the seductive call of the rings, but he was guarded against them now.

I will not serve!

Elladan, leading the charge of white and grey horses like foam on the sea, plunged ahead, his gallant, borrowed horse stretched out, flattened into a gallop, charged towards the Gate. Ahead, he could see where Gandalf was still hunched over the gleaming shirt and he saw too how Elrohir turned his head and looked up. On the Towers of the Teeth, the remaining Nazgul were absolutely still and silent. Only a flutter of a black robe, a bat-wing lifted and rested on the slight wind and a serpentine head stretched on sinuous neck. Cold eyes searched and he felt the malevolence heavy against his own thoughts...

Elladan kept his eyes trained on the Tower, saw the first winged beast stretch out its thin leathery wings and push off from the pinnacle. The huge lizard raised its talons and dived towards the black horse that carried Elrohir. Instantly another and another and another until all seven Nazgul were plummeting from the Tower and swooping down. Without thought, without hesitation, Elladan pulled his bow and fitted an arrow and sent it screaming towards the foremost lizard as it drove into the black horse, sent it somersaulting into the dust and Elrohir was thrown wide. Suddenly a breath of wind from the West seemed to lift Elladan's arrow and drive it forwards. The Nazgul's steed reared back sharply, its talons lifted to paw and scrape at its neck where the arrow had pierced its throat. Without pause for breath, Elladan reached back for another arrow and fitted it, and let it fly, for one after another now, the Nazgul plunged from the skies towards the fallen Elrohir, like cinders. Elladan knew the last arrow had been a gift, reaching for arrow after arrow, aware that the Black Gate was opening and a crimson fiery light streamed forth and amongst it was the glitter of thousands and thousands of spears.

There was a white light ahead of him and it seemed to shield Elrohir from the Nazgul and horribly, Elladan saw that how they changed their course and lifted, swooped towards himself...and Imrahil. He felt his breath tear in his throat and he thought slowly that he had not realised how much it would matter to him if Imrahil should fall. But he had no time to think for the grey horse swerved sharply and he shot arrow after arrow and the Nazgul steeds veered and lifted higher, circling. He heard the whine of arrows from Imrahil's men but he held off for a moment and breathed, not fooled. The Nazgul could wait, they knew what was coming and they would feast upon them all sooner or later.

Ahead of him, he saw the fallen Nazgul's wounded beast limping and shaking its head from side to side. But nearby its dread rider stood regardless of its mount's anguish, the thin black shroud fluttered in the wind and lifted it so it streamed behind the Nazgul like black smoke. Elladan's heart suddenly clenched for a dark shape lay unmoving before the Nazgul, whose great broadsword was in its mail-clad fist. Slowly the Nazgul raised its arms high, the light gleamed on the blade like mercury and Elladan felt a dark power slide off it. A thin high scream pinched the air, pierced his ears like blades and he cried aloud to his horse so he drowned out the scream. Suddenly the Nazgul raised itself up like a serpent about to strike and plunged its blade downwards. Elladan threw himself from his horse and lunged towards it and the dark blade slid off his own frost-bright sword. Elladan's horse half-reared behind him and squealed in fear but he paid no heed.

'You will not take him!' he shouted. 'You will not have him for your lord. And I will not serve!'

You are nothing. Go.

Suddenly he was aware of the thunder of hooves behind him and drawing close, closer, beside him. Imrahil galloped up between the Nazgul and Elladan, hefting a great lance. The Nazgul raised its mail-clad fist and a darkness curled around Imrahil. His horse snorted in fear and tossed its head but did not retreat and Imrahil suddenly hurled the lance into the Nazgul. Elladan brandished his frost-white sword, as the heavy lance thudded into the Nazgul, so it staggered, but it did not fall.

'You are not Angmar!' Elladan shouted, and the Nazgul raised itself, stood taller and taller and shrieked so the horses flattened their ears and turned and turned, but the valiant beasts did not run. 'You are not invincible!'

He brought his sword down with a mighty clang onto the Nazgul's own great blade. He whirled and swung again to find the Nazgul's empty hood close to his own face and it shrieked in his face so he felt the horror of its unearthly immortality.

He lifted his sword and plunged it into the wraith's black robes so it grated against old iron armour so he wondered, as he had once before, why it wore armour. As he whirled around, lifting his sword two handed above him, he thought where the weaknesses would be and suddenly twisted his body slightly so the blade would fall on its neck but it had stepped back itself and the Nazgul drew itself up and then suddenly crouched, screaming in his face. A rich and heavy stench of foul pestilence and rotting meat blasted him and Elladan could not help but recoil and then abruptly, inexplicably, the Nazgul fell back, stood aside and Elladan saw the dust rise up behind it.

A red-limned cloud of it. Churned up by the horses' hooves and the twitching and flapping of the Nazgul's great wounded lizard-beast. The dust turned red, a fiery glow lit the sky above the Gate as opened and the armies of Sauron poured forth. Fiery red light caught on the spears and pikes and standards of thousands and thousands of Orcs. Tens of thousands, and the ground quaked beneath their iron-shod feet. He knew the same was behind them. They were caught. There was no hope left. And then above the red glowing dust, he saw something rise...colossal, huge, beyond the imagining of any Elf. It rose, wall upon wall, battlement upon battlement, black, immeasurably strong, mountain of iron, gate of steel, tower of adamant. Barad-dûr, Fortress of Sauron. As it had seemed to his brother, it was like a colossus, a gigantic black-armoured warrior whose head was yet shrouded in clouds.

'Elladan! Fly!' Imrahil cried and Elladan turned to find Elrohir struggling to his feet, dark Aícanaro in his hand.

On the ground nearby lay the black horse Aragorn had brought from Gondor, it lifted its head and struggled but could not rise, a gaping gash in its side and thick crimson blood clotted on its glossy black coat. Elrohir was lurching to his feet and reaching out to the horse. Elladan looked down at him, held out his arm to pull him up behind him. Elrohir did not look up at first, eyes fixed on the horse which nickered to him painfully and terrified, and then he lifted his sword and with a swift and deadly blow, he ended the black horse's misery.

Elladan pulled the reins of his grey horse gently so it stepped towards him, nostrils wide and eyes and throwing its head up in fear for the Nazgul had only fallen back, not retreated and it had raised its mail-clad fist and behind it poured the armies of Sauron.

'Trust me,' he said and it stepped towards him so he swung himself astride in haste and held out his hand to his brother. With a backward glance, Elrohir bowed his head towards the dead horse and flung himself behind Elladan. Instantly the company wheeled and turned, flattened into a gallop. Shadowfax at the rear and Gandalf held aloft his white staff. A white light was around them and Elladan charged ahead, with Elrohir safe behind him and Imrahil alongside. Behind them, the roar of Orcish voices raised a battle cry and ahead of them the Men of the West prepared their last defence.

TBC

These passages are taken from ROTK "The Black Gate Opens." In some cases they have been modified slightly to better fit the altered universe created here.

The thees and thous are based on Tolkien's own use. When the Mouth uses 'you' it is in the plural sense of the word. Thanks to Anar for taking a turn at this outdated means of speaking.

annan-breitho; a moment of madness ( lit. a time of breaking)

Next chapter: The Battle of the Morannon.


	41. The Last Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A guest kindly reminded me I had not finished posting this- many apologies. I'll get it posted over the weekend. Comments are nice to get and a good prompt to get a move on. I've got another fic to post here if you want it, the prequel but it is a work in progress.

Chapter 41: The Last Battle

 

Clouds scudded across the bruised sky and lightning flashed distantly over Mordor. Denser clouds were gathered around one place in particular and Pippin thought he could make out a towering edifice, and the lightning flashed from within. For one brief moment a flame of red stabbed northward as from some great window, immeasurably high, the flicker of a piercing Eye and then the shadows were furled again*....He felt a slow stroke of horror down his spine. This was Barad-dûr. The Dark Tower. Pippin felt suddenly cold. He tucked his hands under his armpits and his teeth chattered a little.

 

He stood with Legolas, for Gimli had gone after Aragorn, probably telling him off even now, thought Pippin. The Hobbit glanced up at the tall Elf and noticed more sharply how the strange half light caught in Legolas’ hair and on his bow, his knives. It seemed like the runes on those weapons moved and poured in the light, as if they were alive and Pippin felt a bubble of laughter well up. Hysteria, he recognised now. Here they were on the doorstep. But not Smaug’s, not like Bilbo’s old story. This was Mordor. Like Gil-Galad and Elendil and Isildur. But Gil-Galad had led armies of Elves. They had one. Elendil had thousands upon thousands of Men. They had a mere five thousand. 

 

Pippin saw that Legolas was staring intently across the plains to the Black Gate, and the Elf moved restlessly. But although Pippin strained to see between the ranks of Men, archers, even standing on tiptoe, he could not see what everyone was watching with breathless fear.

 

Quite suddenly Legolas took a quick step forwards. The Men around them stirred too, and strained to see. A quiet murmur went up and Pippin frowned and tried to move around to see but it was dense with bodies and no-one would move. Legolas shifted forwards a little more like he would fly if he could, like a hawk and Pippin pulled gently at his sleeve. 

 

‘What is happening, Legolas?’ he asked, suddenly afraid. 

 

Legolas looked down at Pippin as if he had forgotten he was even there. ‘Pippin! Why do you linger here?’ the Elf cried aghast. ‘You must stand with Aragorn. We will be overrun here in moments. It is not safe for you here.’

 

‘Oh? Do you think it’s safer up there?’ Pippin asked with a touch of asperity that he would not normally use with Legolas.

 

Legolas did not flinch, but he had already turned back, staring out towards the Black Gate. ‘You must hide now,’ he said without looking down. ‘Stay with Aragorn if you can but keep your cloak over you.’ 

 

Pippin looked up at him blankly and said nothing, feeling utterly useless. It wasn’t fair, he thought. Merry had killed the Witchking and he had done nothing. And it was unlike Legolas to dismiss him so easily. 

 

Legolas glanced down at him and away again as if distracted, and impatient. Then he looked down longer and caught Pippin in his strange green gaze that seemed to see right through the Hobbit. ‘Pippin, Gandalf’s plan was to distract them...from Frodo and Sam. When I was on the Mountain, I showed them Merry. Merry killed Angmar. He is a Hobbit. I let them see the Ring in a Hobbit’s hand. So they would think Merry had it.’

 

Pippin blinked stupidly. ‘But Merry is in Minas Tirith...He’s not here...’

 

Legolas let his hand fall onto Pippin’s shoulder and regarded him steadily, letting him slowly see. 

 

‘Oh.’

 

‘You see why you must hide.’ Legolas suddenly dropped to one knee in front of Pippin. He glanced back over his shoulder as if he could see through the gathered ranks of Men at whatever so distressed him. ‘You must trust me.’ He stared at Pippin more intently so the Hobbit felt he was not just hearing the words, but somehow feeling them as well. ‘If they find you, it will be terrible. You cannot imagine...’ The Elf held him, cradled him almost in his grey-green gaze., Pippin felt he was falling, drowning in the Sea and white birds cried above foaming waves. Then Legolas blinked and it was gone. ‘You will not be able to escape. Hide. Your cloak will keep you from being seen.’

 

He found himself nodding dumbly. 

 

Legolas nodded back, as if satisfied and rose to his feet. ‘Go now. Get up there quickly.’ He gave Pippin a small push. ‘Run! Get to the top. Hide.’ The Elf was already moving, his hands reached back and pulled two arrows from his quiver. ‘Pull your cloak over you,’ he called over his shoulder as he pushed between the anxious, waiting Men. ‘Keep your head down until I come for you, or Aragorn or Gimli. Trust no one else!’

 

‘Be safe too, Legolas!’ Pippin called but Legolas was already striding quickly through the ranks of Men to the front line, arrows loosely held in one hand, his bow in the other. 

 

Pippin turned and made his way as quickly as he could up the sloping hill towards Aragorn. There was a growing murmur of anxiety amongst the Men now gathered about Aragorn. Fair and desperate, he had raised the banner of the Tree and Stars* and the mithril thread caught the grey half light so it gleamed against the darkness. Pippin strained to see that upon the other hill hard by stood the banners of Rohan and Dol Amroth, White Horse and Silver Swan. And about each hill a ring was made, bristling with spears and sword.* The thin wail of the Nazgul drifted towards them on the cold wind. 

 

Pippin scurried past Gimli and gave him a quick wave and the Dwarf nodded back seriously. He stood before Aragorn, his mighty war axe already in his hands. The ranks of anxious faced Men parted briefly to let Pippin through and he pushed his way towards Aragorn. The Man looked distant, but his grey eyes softened as he looked down and saw the Hobbit’s serious look. 

 

‘Legolas has sent me up here with you,’ Pippin said by way of explanation. ‘He told me to hide but I want to stand with you and Gimli. And I wish Legolas were up here as well so we can keep an eye on him.’

 

Aragorn did not smile at all but merely nodded and returned his gaze to the Gate. Pippin followed his gaze and from this better vantage point he could see what had bothered Legolas so; the horses of Dol Amroth on the plains below, galloping away from the Black Gate ahead of a cloud of red-limned dust. Right behind them, the great wings of the Nazgul’s beasts unfurled, pounding the air, beating the dust into a storm, and from the Black Gate spewed the hordes of Mordor. But soaring above the whole vale of Udûn, wrapped in a brooding gloom was the Tower, high as a mountain; wall upon wall, battlement upon battlement, black, immeasurably strong, mountain of iron, gate of steel, tower of adamant.* Pippin saw it all: Barad-dûr. Fortress of Sauron, the Lord of the Rings. Pippin felt his courage fail him utterly then and all hope left him....

 

 

oo0o0o0ooooo0000oooo

 

 

Legolas was relieved that Pippin at least had scuttled off to safety and now he watched breathless. The Gate was wide open now and out of it streamed the hordes of Mordor as swiftly as swirling waters when a great sluice is lifted*. And above, the Nazgul skittered across the sky. There was barely a breath, barely a sound. Out of a cloud of red dust fled the grey and white horses of Dol Amroth. Shadowfax blazed ahead and the ground trembled beneath the horses' thunderous, desperate charge. 

 

There was no black horse galloping amongst them. 

 

He found himself pushing his way through the Men who strained to see, his own heart pounding. He shook his head slightly; they were still too far away and the long thin wailing of the Nazgul terrified the waiting, watching Men and froze their blood. One man close by dropped his sword from nerveless fingers and sank to the ground, head in his hands, moaning. 

 

Legolas strode between the Men, pushed past the front line until he was clear of them, standing beyond the gathered ranks. Still there was no black horse galloping amongst the grey and white. Ahead of him were rocks piled up like an island, from some long ago landslide. He leaped swiftly from one boulder to another to the top for it gave him vantage and height, though he knew it marked him out. Blood roared in his ears, his heart thumped, flooding his lungs and heart and nerves with energy and power and a pounding fear.

 

Elrohir could not have fallen. He could not be dead.

 

His long pale hair lifted in the cold wind, flew back against the thin grey sky that seemed dark enough for twilight. His hands did not shake as he nocked two arrows together and he drew his great bow further and further until he thought his muscles would tear. He sighted along the arrow and found the great winged beasts that pursued the grey and white horses as they galloped, flattened out, streamed in the red-limned wind. 

 

A memory sliced through him...a flat reptilian head in the rain snapped jaws, teeth like fine needles...An Eye opened upon him. I see you... But he gripped his heart and thinned his mouth, breathed in softly through his nose and held...and held...and suddenly the first great winged beast was in range and he fired. He did not wait to see if it struck true but reached for another and the great bow of Lorien sang and he fired another and another so the air was filled with the shrill whine of arrows and the huge soughing wings of the Nazgul bearing down on him. He ducked, crouching between the rocks as it rushed overhead, outstretched talons crashing into the stones above him, sent them skittering down onto him and he put his hands over his head. 

 

And then the grey and white horses were surging towards him and plunging, tossing their heads so their manes were like foam, galloping past him where he stood on his island of rocks...

 

The Nazgul tore over the Men of Gondor then, shrieking and wailing, and soaring high and out of reach of the storm of arrows. They screamed high over the Men who covered their ears and cringed in fear and desperate horror. One hurtled towards the hilltop where the black banner of the White Tree fluttered defiantly. 

 

Legolas stood tall and sighted along his bow, he narrowed his eyes and the world shrank to where the thin leathery wings whumped the air. He breathed in softly through his nose and exhaled gently...and fired. 

 

The Nazgul’s steed veered wildly away to the left. It threw its head back and keened horribly. Its wings beat heavily, laboured and it lurched towards the Gate. An empty hood turned, looked down at where Legolas stood.

 

I tire of you, whelp of Azgarâzir. When this is done, do not think we will neglect you.

 

He felt the chill run through him, freezing his blood but he did not care. He could see no black horse amongst the grey and white horses that milled and surged behind him. Then from the gaping maw of the Morannon came a roar that grew, rolled around the mountains, building as if from the throat one great and terrible beast. Legolas turned quickly away from the winged menace and saw the black tide had rushed forwards. The mercurial half-light glinted off a million spears and pikes and shields and he could see the great trolls and orcs that charged madly towards him. 

 

But something lay very still out on the plains between him and the rushing black. It lay still. Like a black boulder. 

 

He narrowed his eyes. 

 

A black horse, lying on its side, its head was stretched out towards him and the wind lifted its mane a little. But then the army of Mordor swarmed over it, hacking and jeering and it disappeared in the onslaught. His lips parted in a faint cry and his hand flew to his chest for the pain that pierced him through.

 

Elrohir was gone. The black horse had fallen and was now trampled by the bloody trolls and orcs and Legolas was certain his rider fell with it. He pressed his hand over his eyes and it seemed to him then that he too would fall at this ending of the world.

 

 

o0o0o0o0ooo0ooo

 

 

Elrohir clung to his brother as they fled across the plain, the sharp copper tang in his mouth. He felt wetness on his hand. He glanced down at himself and saw the dark wet stain on the sleeve of his black tunic. It was not his. 

 

He glanced back over his shoulder as they galloped, a last look at the dead black horse, as still as a boulder on the plains. The hordes of Mordor swarmed over it, hacking and stabbing and he looked away, glad it had been his hand that dealt the final blow. Valiant Kathuphazgân. He pressed his face against his brother’s shoulder thinking how Kathuphazgân had trembled under his hand as he struck him dead. 

 

Elladan reached back and briefly squeezed his hand. Elrohir felt intense blue envelop him, flow around and through him. He felt his brother’s black silk hair brush his face, the hard muscle beneath the crush of his black suede tunic, he smelled of horses and athelas, and his own clean sky-blue scent. 

 

He saw Elladan glance across at Imrahil who galloped alongside them, the Man’s bright sword clasped in his hand and his short hair tugged by the wind. And Elrohir suddenly was aware that Legolas was not here. He could not help a stab of disappointment.

 

The horse he shared with Elladan suddenly surged ahead and he felt it straining its muscles, flattening out to a gallop. He thought there was a roaring in his ears and he shook his head slightly, thinking it was his own blood pounding. But it came from behind. He glanced over his shoulder and his heart caught. The huge serrated wings of the Nazguls’ basilisk steeds pounded the air as they hurtled after Elrohir and Elladan. 

 

The Nazgul were gaining on them, the great beasts covering more ground in one beat of the huge leathery wings than the terrified horses could gallop. Their blunt reptilian heads snapped too close. He heard a sudden whine above and glanced up in fear; a streak of silver sped past him, above him. Immediately there was a loud, harsh cawing from the throat of one of the great winged beasts and the wind shifted. He glanced behind them as the horse suddenly put on a spurt of speed. He saw one of the winged beasts lurch sideways into another and crash downwards into the cloud of red dust. 

 

Ahead was a pile of rocks like an island beyond the ranks of Men, and high upon it a tall figure, golden hair lifted by the sudden wind, sighted along a bow, firing arrow after arrow at the pursuing Nazgul. The plunging, galloping horses, surged around and then past the island. Elrohir pulled at Elladan as they passed but he did not stop. He turned and stared even as Legolas sighted and followed one huge beast speeding towards him, almost skimming him as it fled past, towards the hilltop. 

 

Suddenly they were amongst the breathless waiting host, and men gathered around them, taking the reins of horses, helping them down, scrambling to form ranks, muttering prayers as the black tide rushed towards them from the open Gate. Gandalf had already dismounted and was striding up the slopes towards Aragorn, his white robes shimmered in the half mercurial light. Imrahil too reached up to Elladan, clasping his arm, holding his gaze. Suddenly Elrohir needed to see, to touch Legolas.

 

He spun round to find the last place he had seen Legolas, the small island of rocks piled up out on the plains. When he saw the Elf leaping lightly down from the rocks, Elrohir’s heart swelled, seemed to overwhelm him and he thought it would burst at the mere sight of him. He loved Legolas. He had rejected, without hesitation, everything he had been offered by the Nazgul. He felt a strength course through his veins he had not felt before; he would fight them with every ounce of his strength and with his soul. He would not wear that iron crown. He would die first. His fist clenched hard over Aícanaro and he felt the sword thrum with dark anticipation.

 

Looking up quickly at Elladan, he reached up to clasp his brother’s arm. Their eyes met.

 

‘Go!’ Elladan smiled. ‘Find him. Tell him what is in your heart if you have not already.’ Elladan himself was already looking away, Elrohir noticed, watching Imrahil as he ordered his men, first amongst those to face the hordes that spewed from the Vale of Udûn. 

 

Crowds of men surged around Elrohir, scrambling for weapons, rushing to take positions on the slopes of the two hills, running to fill the gaps. Archers crowded onto the higher slopes, high enough to see over the Men of Dol Amroth and close enough to be quickly in range and the banner of the Tree and Stars floated over the place where Aragorn stood. Above them, much higher, wary now and out of range, the Nazgul circled. 

 

Elrohir looked around, searching for Legolas for he had leaped down from the rocks and disappeared amongst the soldiers. Suddenly Elrohir saw him. He felt his breath catch. Legolas had not seen him and though all around him was chaos, in that moment the Elf was utterly still. Legolas’ head was bowed, his shoulders slumped slightly and he had covered his eyes with his hand. Elrohir’s heart clenched with an almost physical pain; he could not bear to see his beloved in such despair.

 

Elrohir strode swiftly up the slopes, pushing through the panicked soldiers, and as if he felt Elrohir’s coming, Legolas lifted his head. His eyes widened, lips parted and before he could speak, Elrohir was before him, had cupped the back of Legolas’ head and brought him close. Elrohir stared for a moment into those wide green-gold eyes and pulled Legolas towards him, pressing his mouth against his, pushing between his lips as he gasped nad filling his mouth with his own tongue. Wishing there was nothing between them. It was fierce, brief, passionate. He heard eagles soar above the snow. This, this is what love is, he thought. Pure. The Song amplified. 

 

‘I will find you,’ he said, pulling back and gazing into the green-gold eyes that were full of wonder. ‘When this is done, I will find you.’ He pushed a loose hair back from Legolas’ beautiful, flushed face. He did not pause but turned and strode down the slope. Men parted for him and turned their faces towards him in admiration for he was fell and fair and had braved the Nazgul and the Black Gate alone with Gandalf. And they knew he had fought with Eorl the Young and scoured the mountains for Orcs with his brother for centuries. 

 

Thunder rolled and rolled around the valley, growing in volume until it filled the air. Elrohir gritted his teeth and electricity crackled in his hair and skittered over his skin, prickling. Immense pressure as if a storm were coming, built up, pressed down on him. It drew his eyes inexorably back to the gaping maw of the Black Gate. A demonic red glow lit the clouds of dust that swirled from the Gate, glinted on the thousand and thousands of spears, pikes, lances, blades. And above it all rising black, blacker and darker than the vast shades amid which it stood, the cruel pinnacles and iron crown of the topmost tower of distant Barad-dûr.* A spear of red flame flashed high, high above and it seemed that words like black inky threads wound about him

 

...Ash... 

 

...nazg... 

 

...durbatulûk... 

 

He felt the words of summoning wind their black tendrils of fear through the uneasy Men, creeping, searching for the One precious thing. He found his lips moving, but the black threads caught on his lips like spider webs and he brushed them away and glanced upwards. 

 

On the hilltop above, he could hear Aragorn shouting orders, and felt the bonds that tied them stretch. He wanted to linger for a moment with his mortal brother, to fold him into a protective embrace, just in case it was indeed the end of everything. He rubbed away the last sensations of the words on his lips. 

 

Ahead of him now he saw that Elladan had turned towards him as if he too had heard the words of summoning, felt the power stretch for Elrohir and seek to entangle him in its web. Elrohir met his brother’s tender grey eyes and saw how his long black hair was pulled out by the wind that buffeted them all, and the mercurial light caught on his frost-bright sword. 

 

He lifted his head and strode forwards to stand with Elladan then and together their swords gleamed and the mithril runes twisted around the blades like molten serpents. They stood, their long black hair streaming in the hot wind that blew like fury from the open Gates, their strong beautiful faces set like stone, their grey eyes storm dark and filled with that ferocious violence for which they were known, the Sons of Thunder.

 

 

00o0o0o0o0o0

 

Heavy thunderhead clouds gradually covered the skies, grasping at them, reaching outwards from Mordor, from the Tower that rose up and up, like a mountain. Lightning flashed from the clouds and crackled across the sky, lighting up the spears and pikes and blades of the armies. Pippin found himself holding his breath, for those armies were advancing at a terrible pace and the ground shook beneath their iron shod feet. Any moment now, it would break upon the Sons of Elrond. He shook his head in misery and horror for what was about to happen. He could see no way they could survive, if any of them did, and for a moment he thought of what Legolas had bid him do and felt like throwing his cloak over his head and burying himself down under the dry and dusty earth. 

Gimli shifted and said something under his breath. His hands gripped the haft of his axe and he took a deep breath. Following the Dwarf’s gaze he saw Legolas then amongst the other archers, shockingly unprotected by anything but light leather armour, no helm, no shield. His long bow was bent back and the lightning flashed, gleaming on his long hair, and the runes on his bow turned molten silver.

 

‘Legolas is on his own,’ Pippin said softly and he caught the concern in Gimli’s brown eyes. ‘Perhaps I should...’

 

‘Stay,’ a voice said sternly and Pippin looked up for it was Gandalf’s voice. The Wizard’s face seemed to be filled with an inner light since he had returned from the Black Gate in the mad dash with Elrohir, and Pippin thought he looked nothing like the old grey wizard who used to visit the Shire and was known for his fireworks. Gandalf suddenly looked down upon Pippin and there was the same softening of his blue eyes that Pippin had seen when they stood on the walls on Minas Tirith before the battle of Pelennor. Gandalf nodded once at Pippin as if he read his thoughts and then he said kindly, ‘Stay safe, Peregrine Took and hold your heart. They come.’ 

 

Suddenly the spell was broken and the roaring that had been growing steadily broke upon them and a hail of arrows whined over Pippin’s head from behind. They all turned in shock and there was a mighty roar in the mountains all around them and they knew they had been trapped. No way out. 

 

‘Mahal’s bollocks!’ Gimli swore, ‘I knew it. I told Legolas there was something in the mountains just before the Nazgul attacked him. Stone does not lie.’ He gripped his great war axe and gritted his teeth. And already the black tide had broken upon the Sons of Elrond and great trolls were pounding towards them, roaring like beasts, hill trolls out of Gorgoroth. Taller and broader than Men they were, and they were clad in only close-fitting mesh of horny scales but the rounds bucklers they carried were huge and black and they wielded them like heavy hammers* in their great meaty hands. Reckless they sprang into the ranks of Men and the ranks of the men of Dol Amroth and the Dunedain broke like a ship wrecked by a storm.

 

Pippin stood on tiptoe straining to see and he caught a glimpse of the Sons of Elrond, their swords caught like fire and one struck out at a great troll and the other darted around its back before they were lost in a seething, crashing tide of trolls and orcs. Below him, arrows sang, whined as they sped into the crush of orcs and trolls below. A huge troll lifted its muscular arm and beat with its club upon the shield of one of the sons of Elrond, Pippin could see the half-elf sink beneath the attack, driven to his knees. Pippin gasped and his hand flew to cover his mouth.

 

The troll raised its buckler again and brought it down like hammer onto the elf’s raised arms when abruptly the troll staggered, its hand pawing at its throat and it stumbled and crashed to its knees. The elven warrior staggered to his feet and looked about for a moment and Pippin saw him raise his eyes to search the slopes where the archers were placed. But there was no pause for another troll bore down upon him and he seized the fallen troll’s buckler. Pippin lost sight of him then. 

 

The resounding clash of steel deafened him. Shouts and cries from the mass of Men pushed and churned and struggled. An acrid stink wafted across the field. The huge hill trolls beat upon helm and head, and arm and shield as smiths hammering hot iron* and they roared and bellowed like beasts. Pippin felt fear for they were so...other... so unlike people. He could not imagine any parley now, or truce should Aragorn be defeated. He watched in horror as his worst fears became real - a troll reached out its meaty fist and grasped one of the knights of Dol Amroth by the shoulder, dragged him forwards; he was limp like broken puppet.The troll dipped its head so at first Pippin wondered what it was doing. Then the troll raised its dreadful head and its mouth was covered in deep red blood and stringy gore...

 

Pippin took a step back shaking his head in disbelief. He felt a hand clasp his shoulder and he glanced up. Aragorn’s stern noble face was frozen like stone and though one hand was gentle on Pippin’s shoulder, the other clenched the pommel of Anduril. The winged helm of Gondor framed his face and he looked like the Kings of Old, that stood on the Argonath. 

 

Pippin stared down at where the sons of Elrond had stood but he could see neither now...the Orcs had overrun their positions and he saw Imrahil casting around frantically and being slowly driven back, back and further back. The Prince swung his sword clanging against an Orc, then a troll and he was pressed back into a retreat up the slopes towards Eomer. Pippin could see the ranks of the Men of Gondor and Dol Amroth crushed against one another now so it was hard to even raise their weapons. A rain of arrows scythed through the Orcs and many Orcs fell though they merely glanced off the tough hides of the trolls.

 

And then horribly, out of the gathering mirk, the Nazgul came with their cold voices crying words of death;* and then any hope left in Pippin’s heart was quenched. Their shadows swept over the Men gathered on the hill about their King, and as the darkness and long fingers of heavy cloud reached from the dreadful Tower. Pippin felt his throat constrict and the breath squeeze out of him in fear. It was worse than he had ever felt in the Shire or on the road. Not even on Weathertop had he been as frightened as he was now. He tried to think of Merry, and Sam and Frodo and even old Fatty back in the Shire, but nothing stayed in his mind except the thought that he would die here, at the Black Gate, like in the old songs, like Elendil and Gil-Galad and Legolas’ grandfather, although Pippin had forgotten his name. He hoped it would be quick and he would not get eaten by a troll, or left alive to be sport for Orcs...he had come too close to that already.

 

But it was the waiting that was worse, watching the battle below and simply waiting for it to reach him. And yet wasn’t that the point? To buy Frodo as much time as they could...

 

He felt Gimli shift again and knew the Dwarf was getting impatient. Gimli turned once and looked at Aragorn and then back at the sea of Orcs that crowded around the hill so the first ranks were slowly being pushed back up the slopes. The armies of Mordor simply broke upon them, battered at them like a storm, crushing the dead and dying underfoot to get to the next ranks. 

 

Gimli looked back again and this time he said, ‘It seems to me we are sitting ducks here. At least let’s take some with us, Aragorn.’

 

Aragorn lifted Anduril then. He glanced at Gimli and said, ‘I had the same thought.’

 

Gimli did not grin, or smile but he simply hefted his axe. ‘After you?’ he invited. 

 

Suddenly the Orcs and trolls had broken through and were upon them. Pippin heard Gimli give a great shout and felt him leap into the fray. Beside him, Aragorn drew his sword in a whisper of steel. Pippin clung to his blade of Westernesse and tried to remember that Merry had slain the Witchking with a similar weapon and he opened his mouth and half of him watched himself with astonishment as he leapt through the ranks of struggling, seething Men and Orcs towards a troll that had smote Beregond, his old friend and was even now leaning over him and reaching out a clutching claw*. 

 

‘The Shire!’ burst from Pippin’s throat and he stabbed downwards onto the troll’s foot and then slashed upwards as Boromir had taught him all that time ago on the hills beneath the Misty Mountains. He felt resistance and then pushed harder and the blade sank into the soft underbelly of the troll. Hot liquid spewed out over Pippin’s arm and he turned his head revolted and in that moment, the troll toppled forwards and Pippin felt a crushing weight like a boulder had fallen upon him, burying him beneath. Blackness and stench and crushing pain came upon Pippin and his mind fell away then into a great darkness.*

 

He thought he lapsed into a dream then for he waltzed dreamily into Bilbo’s old tale of There and Back Again. No Back Again for me it seems, he thought wistfully. Poor old Merry. He’ll have to tell Old Took...no...Old Took? And he sighed and there was a distant cry of eagles but it faded quickly and darkness took him then.

 

 

00o0o0o0oooo000

 

 

Aragorn wiped sweat from his brow and scraped his knuckle on the star of Elendil. He kept doing that. Ahead of him, between the struggling raging mass of Men and Orcs and Trolls, he glimpsed a familiar figure on the neigbouring hill, bright copper-gold hair, fighting and hard beset on all sides. The bright swords of Rohan had slowly disappeared, blackened with blood or vanquished, for there were fewer and fewer left standing now, and the standard of the white horse had long since been torn down and trampled into the ground. Now only his own black banner with the white tree fluttered bravely, battered by the wind that blasted and tore and seemed to fight them as much as the Orcs and trolls.

In the lightning that flashed from the great black Tower of Brad-dûr he caught movement in the corner of his eye, just in time to bring his own shield up against a curved sabre that slashed down at him. The Southron warrior lunged again at him and turned, blocking him so their blades slid along each other and they struggled, wrestled for a moment… A sudden whine, an arrow whizzed past his ear and drove deep into the heart of the Southron. The warrior looked startled for a moment and then his eyes glazed and he toppled slowly, sinking to the ground. Aragorn did not hesitate but drove his sword into the trembling corpse to make sure it did not rise. Around him, the shouting and clashing blades was deafening but the shrill whine of arrows had lessened and he knew they were running out.

An Uruk lay behind him, gurgling and clutching its belly in spasms. Aragorn curled his lip in disgust and slashed Anduril across its throat and then turned to hack at an Orc that struggled with one of his Dunedain. 

He looked about briefly and caught sight of Legolas and a few other remaining archers standing tall and firing into the skies. They were intent on driving the Nazgul higher and back for they had boulders gripped in the taloned feet of the beasts and would drop them on the Men of Gondor if they could get near. The wind suddenly intensified and buffeted Legolas, pulled his hair back and he narrowed his eyes, squinting against the wind. But like Eomer, Legolas was being driven back and so many of his archers had fallen too. Suddenly there was a triumphant roar and Aragorn lost sight of the Elf beneath the seething churning sea of Orcs.

 

A heavy blow from a troll suddenly knocked him sideways and then as he brought up his shield to defend himself, it struck on his helm and made him see stars, literally, and he crashed to his knees. The troll lifted its hammer for the killing blow, and suddenly it stumbled beneath the storm of arrows that rained down desperately. He knew not if it was Legolas or the Men of Gondor who protected him but whoever it was he was grateful. The troll fell, crushing Men and Orcs as it fell and as he rolled away, Aragorn shoved another Man away from beneath its body. 

‘’Ware my lord!’ came a cry and he blindly struck out again and hot black blood spurted over his chest, his face. 

 

He wiped his eyes with the bit of fabric that peeked from a tear in his chain mail. He could not remember that tear happening. He could not remember how his helm had become so dented he felt them press against his skull. It was hopeless. They were an island in a sea of black armour, of grey hides. The strange half light glinted off the thousands and thousands of spears and pikes that had still not even reached them. The hordes of Mordor were climbing over the piled up bodies of both Orc and Man to get to the next rows of Men and the air was suffocating, stank of blood. It was a massacre and there was nothing he could do. No strategy, no plan would ever mean victory here. They squandered their lives to buy time...and he did not even know if the time was worth the price. They did not even know if Frodo was on the slopes of Oroduin or in the bowels of Barad-dûr. 

 

 

He heard Gimli’s battle cry; so the Dwarf was still alive. The knowledge fed the small flicker of hope in his breast. He glimpsed Gandalf then too, striking out with his staff and wielding Glamdring with a vengeance, light shining from him. The Wizard seemed charged with energy, and it gave Aragorn a sliver of hope as he swung around and slashed and parried with barely conscious thought. His arms were tired like they had not been at Pelennor or Helm’s Deep. It was the crush. His foot slipped on a bloody mess on the ground and it was soft. He did not look down, could not look down but in the moment that he slipped, a huge hill troll lunged forwards and pounded upon his dented helm and shield and beat him down. 

 

This is it, thought Aragorn, holding up both shield and Anduril to fend off the heavy blows that were more than a Man could take. All those years of waiting...wasted. And he sent a little sigh for Arwen. He stabbed upwards in one last desperate try. He heard Legolas shouting his name somewhere and then Gandalf’s voice. 

 

‘...eagles are coming....’

 

Darkness descended and he heard Legolas crying out, knew the Elf was fighting towards him but ah, too late. But at least the Elf was still alive. For now. And Gimli. He wanted to look once more into the Dwarf’s steady earth-brown eyes. He wished he had made Pippin hide. And he had wanted to say again to Legolas that he was sorry. But more than anything, he wished he could hold Arwen just once more...her softness, her deep understanding. The thought of her was in his mind when he fell.

 

00oooo0o0o0oooo00ooo

 

 

The wind buffeted and blasted Elrohir so his long black hair streamed behind him. Lightning skittered across the sky, ripped blinding flashes of silver and black in the clouds, lighting up the Nazgul as they shot through the sky like flaming bolts. Their cold voices rose above the thunder that rolled and roared like some wild thing. 

 

Ash nazg...

 

He felt them reach for him, wrapping their cold voices around him and he could no longer see Elladan, Legolas or Aragorn. They were beaten back...defeat was close. 

 

A huge troll, its scaly hide grey and wrinkled, hung loosely off its heavy muscle and bones, brandished its iron mace and it roared. It clanged the mace against the iron buckler and swung round. Elrohir dodged and threw himself near the ground, rolled and came up on his feet, leaping beneath the troll’s reach and aiming for its knees. He felt Aícanaro bite deep and its pleasure darkened as blood spurted over the blade. 

 

The troll reared back and bellowed its fury, lifted its mace high and smashed it down toward Elrohir. He felt the earth judder beneath his feet as he leapt over the blade and landed a series of slashing blows on the trolls’ chest and thrust his blade upwards. Blood spattered and sprayed over his face, and he thrust and hacked at the grey heavy flesh. The troll opened its maw and rolled its head in frustrated fury and smashed the club carelessly on the ground. Nearby a man of Gondor screamed as it smashed into him but Elrohir did not pause. He darted between the troll’s legs, a hot stink hit him as he came up at the troll’s back even as the mace crashed into the ground where he had been seconds before.

 

An orc turned and seeing him, stabbed wildly with the curved scimitar in his hand but Elrohir quickly sliced across its neck even as he turned back to the troll. The troll was swinging its head around looking for Elrohir and again, he speared the back of its knees and then he leapt upwards, aiming for its groin. The troll howled in agony but Elrohir dared not pause for already there was thunder and another troll appeared right behind him. It smashed its buckler over Elrohir’s shield and he heard a terrible crunch and then knifing pain in his arm. His nerveless fingers dropped his own round shield so he ducked below the swinging fist that was the size and weight of a boulder, and ran swiftly from the arc of the club as it swung round and smashed through the air. An orc’s head rolled off at his feet for trolls were not discriminate. 

 

Something whined past him, felt like it had sliced his cheek and his hand flew up instinctively. But though he felt like he had been cut, there was no blood and he realised it was not the troll’s blade but an arrow that had whizzed past him and was now lodged in the troll’s gullet. It threw its head about, the horrible gurgling that came from its mouth Elrohir barely registered, for already and so soon, he was again hard pressed. Orcs this time. He found himself slipping on blood and stumbling over the bodies of the fallen, so many men and now and again, when he looked down, he recognised a face and was glad it was not Elladan. 

 

There was a shimmer in the air, hanging over the battlefield now like heat and a metallic tang on his tongue. The air shifted subtly; something darker approached. Needed to be summoned. Flame and shadow, a thrust of evil seemed to pierce him. Fire ran through his veins, skimmed over his skin. And the Voice that opened inside him was darker than the Nazgul, deeper, like black silk, velvet. Like the Void.

 

Rávëyon. 

 

You will be their Lord. Master. You will have dominion...

 

An iron crown awaited him, an iron ring would chain him. 

The rich iron-salt smell of blood filled the air and made the ground slippery underfoot. He took another step forwards and Aícanaro trembled with delight, drinking in the darkness, letting it soak into its metal, the flames and darkness rolled off the blade like ribbons of silk. Even after so much blood, still it was unsatisfied.

 

Your yôzâira...There will be a sacrifice but it will not be your rich blood spilt. 

 

With sudden understanding, Elrohir stared up at the soaring Tower, the mountain of adamant too colossal to have ever been made by any creature of Arda. And the spear of red flame pierced the gloom to find him, him alone and fixed upon him. 

 

‘Your price is too great,’ he said with finality. He felt a thin smile against the corners of his mind then and the Eye watched, waited for him to fall. Because he knew he would. They all would.

 

The press of battle was fiercer than anything he had ever experienced in his long, long life. An iron will forced the hordes of Mordor onwards and held him back. His arms felt heavier and heavier as though he had been fighting for days without rest instead of the few hours this had gone on. And there was no sign of ceasing. 

 

He swung Aícanaro again. It felt so heavy, and clanged against the thin blade of a Man from the East. His red robes shimmered and flowed around him though he was already weakened from the gash Elrohir had opened up in his side. The robes were red so you could not see the blood, Elrohir realised in one part of his mind; the other part calculated the angle of the thrust that would finish the Man from the East. Elrohir thrust. The blade sank into warm flesh, the Man’s eyes stared horribly and rolled in his sockets, his hands clutched at Aícanaro and cut his palms so blood slid down the blade, pooling with the black blood that already bathed it. Elrohir carefully pulled Aícanaro from the Easterling’s twitching body like an act of sex and the dark metaled blade drooled with gore, dripped blood like a fang or talon. Elrohir felt its power surge through him for Aícanaro had drunk the blood of the Nazgul, it had drunk the blood of Sauron Annatar himself.

 

Fool! To dream you can threaten me...

 

Sudden thunder rolled around the valley and a flash of lightning lit everything silver and then black. He lifted Aícanaro again.

 

‘I am not afraid of you!’ he shouted into the teeth of the gale that stormed, hurled the words like a thunderbolt.

 

He did not pause or wait for the response for already he felt a shift on the bodies piled behind and around him, the squelch of heavy iron shod feet stamping down on a Man behind him. Elrohir hurled himself round to face a huge Uruk from Mordor. Its narrow yellow eyes gleamed with a wildness and glee he had never encountered before this day, for he had not been at Helm’s Deep. It bared its yellow fangs and bellowed, and Elrohir suddenly felt there was nothing like a conscious reason behind that frightening visage. He slashed upwards blindly in sudden hatred and fear, overwhelmed by a memory of stifling tunnels and the grunting panting breath...In the moment he lost his footing and slipped, stumbled on a wooden buckler that had become slippery with blood and clots of flesh.

 

The Uruk brought its scimitar down and drove it hard against Elrohir’s blade, whipped it back swiftly and struck at his face. The heavy blade knocked against his helm, his head, bashed him about his chest, his cuirass, and his legs were swept from under him. He felt his own armour buckle and give and he was pressed back, weighed down by that will that crushed them all, poured its malevolence against them.The heavy curved blade struck Aícanaro away. Blood on his own hands was slippery and suddenly it seemed that Aícanaro slithered out of his grip and disappeared beneath him. 

 

No! 

 

He threw himself after it, fingers grasped at the dark metal as it slid beneath the slithering, slippery bodies. He scrabbled at the bloody corpses beneath him, but Aícanaro slipped away from his desperate clawing grasp. A thunderous roar and hot stink in his face made him look up and his heart gave mighty lurch in his chest as he locked eyes with the Uruk. Desperately he scrabbled at nothing and suddenly his fingers bashed against a wooden edge, brought up a wooden buckler, thrust it in the Uruk’s grinning face, and as the Uruk lurched backwards, he staggered to his feet. But its heavy jagged blade locked and smashed against the wood, shattering it. He felt his arm give and the wood spilt. He seized one half in both hands and blocked and blocked but each time the Uruk drove deeper, thrust harder, its lips drew back in a snarling grin and its little yellow eyes glinted. A red tongue flicked out and licked its fangs and it raised the scimitar high over its head and drove down, hard, hard enough for the wood to splinter, hard enough to drive the blade into Elrohir’s shoulder, hard enough to drive him back down to his knees and he dropped the shield, leaning over, hands gripping the ground as he fought the dizzying whirl of the ground.

 

He wished he had not wasted all his long life in hatred and fear and self-loathing. He wished he could say he was sorry to Elladan. And to Legolas. Breathing hard, he waited for the world to stop spinning and he could feel, hear the Uruk’s heavy tread approach. 

 

And suddenly it stopped. The Orcs around him suddenly rippled and seemed nervous, fell back...A way opened before him and he raised his dizzy head. A thin black shroud fluttered slightly and then he saw a mailed fist raised, a heavy broadsword clasped before it.

 

Rávëyon.

 

He swallowed. Gripped the wet soil, the earth. The Nazgul seemed taller, darker, like it absorbed any light or warmth. Its cold shadow fell over him and his blood went cold. But he was Rávëyon, Elrohir Elrondion and he would be cowed by no rattling of old bones. So he told himself.

 

Lord. 

 

Rávëyon.

 

Elrohir lifted his own grey eyes wearily upwards. It seemed to Elrohir then the dust had whipped up into the shapes of huge leathery winged beasts that dropped out of the sky and landed with heavy thuds. Darkness gathered where they landed. One threw its flat reptilian head up and gave a dreadful hissing shriek and snapped at the arrows that flew towards it and peppered its thick impenetrable hide. One unfurled its great wings and from its shadow there emerged a tall figure. In its mailed fist was a huge broadsword the equal perhaps of Aícanaro. The air was full of terrible cries that chilled his blood. The Nazgul emerged from the red clouds and fog. 

 

Ash nazg durbatulûk, 

In Elrohir’s dazed and pain-shattered mind, the battle receded, went elsewhere, perhaps to his left where a bright-haired Elf fought to reach him, twin blades flashing white and silver, slashing round and up. Perhaps the trolls had lumbered heavily, swifter than he thought possible, to where another fought, long black hair flying in the wind, struggling to reach him as the Nazgul approached, circled him as wolves bring a stag at bay. He heard distantly, his name called and thought someone might be shouting to him...And then all else faded and there was only him and the darkness...

Ash nazg gimbatul

They converged upon him. No longer separate entities but one. The Brethren. Unassailable they strode through the trolls and orcs and men. Great swords they held before them, gleaming. Empty hoods dark. A dark chant of deep voices, felt in the blood and bone, not heard. Resonance and power surged through the air, crept around him and he knew this was the end...

 

Ash nazg thrakatulûk

Words of summoning conjured from the blood-soaked air. Black threads scattered on Elrohir’s skin, caught like spider webs, twined around him where he knelt weaponless, helpless. 

... agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.

 

The words seemed to swirl and become darkness. Solidify. Black shrouds halted in a circle around him. Stood silent. Still. Waiting. And he could see beyond the veils now, could see their dim forms, the skeletons they were, the grinning empty eyes that burned, the hunger that devoured them. They were filled with a dreadful, gnawing hunger that they could not satisfy. Their lust and desire could not be assuaged. They were starving...

 

Rávêyon. Lord... of the Brethren.

 

Slowly, they advanced and they did not hesitate or slow their advance. It seemed ponderous but it was swift nonetheless and there were seven blades all poised before him.

 

A tear down his arm and warmth oozed from the cut. Another on his chest and a sword that came suddenly from his left only to be cut on his right cheek. Another piercing cut on his shoulder, his arm, his hand, a blade sliced down thigh. He remembered, distantly that he had seen this before...

Ash nazg thrakatulûk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul

 

 

The words drew together in darkness and a red rim of fire burned the edge of the dark. It grew, fed off the dark. A ring of Fire...that burned and heated his skin.

 

The world tilted sideways and all was red with blood. Pain flooded him. Like he had never known and darkness fell over him. Head bowed. He was aware, but could not comprehend, that his tunic was soaking wet. He felt the throb and pulse of his blood; he had never felt it as strongly as he did now...it seemed to pulse strongly, to beat loudly but more slowly...yes, perhaps that was it. It was louder, but weaker...Aícanaro was not in his hand.

 

Ash nazg gimbatul.

It seemed the words trembled in the air, a dreadful summoning, an incantation that would bring the Eye to the midst of the battle, as it had on the mountainside and he trembled for his mortal blood. Fire licked across his skin, across the darkness, white fire. Lightning split the darkness, thunderbolts struck the earth and the world seemed plunged in darkness, the lightning struck the hilltops, struck great craters in the earth, and like Orthanc fire it killed Orcs and Men.

 

The fire grew more intense and the Ring grew brighter and then it opened. The Eye. Opened upon him.... the Eye opened upon him and he felt his blood heat, burn, scald, boil and he gasped at the horror of it.

 

Rávëyon...At last.

 

He felt the cold iron upon his finger. A crown forced upon his head. It closed around his brow, bearing down upon him. Closed in on him so he cried aloud and struggled to take it off. 

 

Rávëyon. 

 

Long, pleasurable. Each syllable lingered over like a lover, with pleasure. The cold seemed to burn on his skin like it had been branded...and it felt...right....

 

 

My Lord...champion...

 

Bring Ash Nazg to me.

 

Someone shouted that eagles were coming but he knew it was too late. The eagles would not fly now.

 

There was cold, cold pain and darkness and he thought the earth shuddered in horror but it might have been his own flesh as he was pierced. Somewhere he heard someone shouting, and he remembered a beloved voice telling him he would search everywhere...but his yôzâira could not follow this time.

 

 

00o0o0o0o0ooo

 

 

shows extracts from ROTK

Ash nazg etc is of course the inscription on the One Ring. Ash Nazg means One Ring so it would, of course, be its name.

 

\-----------------------------------------


	42. Aícanaro

Beta: The Incomparable Anarithilen who just won 3rd place in the 2011 MEFAs

Chapter 42: Aícanaro

Battle was intense and loud. The clanging steel and shouting was deafening for the black tide rushed from the Morannon, stormed against the hard pressed Men of Gondor. There were so many dead. A hard cold wind tore across the seething mass and Legolas glanced up to the iron grey sky where first one, then another, and another of the Nazgul's gleaming sinuous beasts folded its wings and plummeted to the earth. They landed one after another with a whump, skidding carelessly through the battling Orcs and Men. The Nazgûl moved amongst them then, and Men scrambled away from their great swords and their cold voices brought death.

Firing arrow after arrow, until his muscles burned and he knew there were few arrows left, Legolas saw Elrohir fall beneath the onslaught of a huge troll, saw him scrambling wildly and coming up with nothing but a wooden buckler. Heart pounding with fear, Legolas reached back and grasped an arrow, knowing this was the last one. He sent it soaring, saw the troll falter and its great fist scrabbled at its throat. Relief surged through him when he saw that Elrohir had turned and was still fighting when suddenly, a great Uruk slammed into Legolas himself. He crashed to the ground, his bow was torn from his grasp and thrown far from him. Swift as lightning he drew his blades as he rolled back to his feet. The Uruk roared in his face and pounded the earth with the mace it carried in one hand.

Both he and the Uruk watched each other for a second, weighing each other up, calculating. The huge creature was heavily muscled, half again the height of Legolas and its mouth was already stained and wet with red blood.

'Azgar-snaga!' Its little eyes glinted at its find and it stretched it lips wide in a horrible smile that showed its sharpened yellow teeth. ' So far from home, what is left of it. The Eye has something special planned for you.' It slowly it drew a shorter blade, wicked, jagged-toothed...A drop slid slowly down the blade.

'You do not frighten me, pushdug,' Legolas snarled back, never above a little Orc speech. He showed his own teeth at its rage and their blades clashed loudly. The Uruk was agile and more intelligent than an Orc. It watched him carefully, testing his strength, finding his weakness. It launched itself at him again and this time, pressed him hard, the clanging blades fast and loud.

The venom gleamed and Legolas wondered briefly it was to kill quickly or merely to slow the blood, to slow him so he could be captured. An image flickered across his thoughts, of his own body bound and straining, lashed beyond endurance and panting...

Suddenly the Uruk lunged forwards, whirling round and its mace swiped through the air towards Legolas. He dodged it quickly and leapt away as the Uruk slashed with the poisoned blade across and down, its coarse black hair like ropes whipped around. Legolas blocked it. The Uruk stepped back and again, they watched each other, assessing speed, agility, strength. And as he did, Legolas caught a glimpse of Aragorn fighting away to his right. The Man was exhausted. Legolas could see his strokes were slower and heavier and even as Aragorn wiped the sweat from his eyes, he slipped suddenly and in that moment a huge hill troll out of Gorgoroth thundered down onto him and raised its hammer, pounding down onto Aragorn's shield.

Calculating, the Uruk noticed his moment of distraction and launched itself at him. Legolas caught the short blade between his own crossed knives and shoved at the Uruk, drove it back enough to whirl, sweeping his twin blades below and above its jagged sword and into its chest and belly. The Uruk roared with pain and fury, spitting and cursing him in its own foul tongue. A hot stink as its rubbery entrails spilled out. It clutched itself with one hand and as it crashed to the ground, it lashed out with the blade.

Legolas drew back, not wasting his own energy and turned to run to Aragorn's side when he felt it. The slightest nick on his arm and a sudden burning sensation on his skin sinking into his blood. He glanced down in surprise at the scratch, and saw a slow black thread ease through the beaded blood. In horror he stared at the blood and then down at the Uruk, its bloody mouth was open and maddened yellow eyes glazed already.

Such a little scratch, he thought, but his eyes were already drawn to Aragorn and the huge troll out of Gorgoroth which pounded its war-hammer against Aragorn's buckling shield. Aragorn was slowly, slowly crushed by its vicious onslaught; his parries were heavier, slower, weary. The troll knew he was finished and lifted its huge, iron-shod foot to stamp upon the Man and grind him into the bloody ground.

'Aragorn!'

Legolas launched himself at the troll, leaping over a fallen and grasping Orc, he seized the crossbow it still clung to and saw with frightened glee a bolt still lodged in it. Never had he been so glad for a crossbow, for the bolts were powerful and he barely paused to aim and fired into the troll's head. It rolled its head back roaring, and stumbled back.

'Aragorn!' he shouted again and relief flooded him when he saw the Man struggling to rise.

At that moment a thin wail pierced the air and Legolas glanced up in horror. He saw how the Nazgûl had gathered their dark folds about Elrohir. His heart faltered for he did not know which way to go; he looked first at Elrohir and then at Aragorn. And then, putting duty before his heart, he turned away from where Elrohir struggled for his life, fought against the darkness for his soul, and ran towards Aragorn.

Legolas shut off all thought, and simply ran and leapt like he had never done before. Seizing the troll's great leather harness, he hauled himself up onto its massive shoulders, and plunged his blades as hard as he could into its neck. It screamed and writhed and shook itself frantically, hot blood spurted up from the great artery and spattered over Legolas. Then he was thrown from its body and landed hard on the stony ground, the breath knocked out of him so he gasped and could not breathe. He lay flattened, clutching his chest and lay stunned.

oo0o0o00o0o0o0

'Elrohir!' shouted Elladan, swinging wildly with his sword and slashing through anything that stood in his way, his sword flashing in the strange silver-black storm light. But ahead of him, where Elladan desperately sought to reach, the darkness coalesced, took shape and gathered around Elrohir where he had fallen. He thought he heard a Voice in the air, deep, deeper than the thunder and it spoke the black speech and pushed the armies of Mordor onwards with a terrible will; they were bewitched, ensorcelled, their will no longer their own if it ever had been. It was as if the mass of orcs were merely a limb extended from the Tower to swipe away the flies that bothered it.

A huge mountain of slack flesh and muscle lumbered before him, a hill troll, wielding a buckler such as Elrohir had grabbed, and a club. It roared and quivered with unaccountable rage.

'I do not have time for this!' Elladan shouted furiously, and leaped and slashed across its throat. Hot black blood gurgled over its fist where it clutched the wound.

Elladan leapt over its quivering mass and then he was amongst the great winged beasts where they clustered. They stretched their sinuous necks and snapped at him as he ran between them, his sword held above him and slicing, hacking and slashing at anything that came near him. Above him, shadows stretched out great wings and his heart sank, expecting boulders and stones to rain down. Instead there was a flash of gold and a cry of the great eagles from the mountains; they swooped down over and amongst the Nazgûl beasts, talons outstretched. Someone had shouted the eagles were coming, he remembered now.

Elladan did not pause but darted between the struggling knots of Men and Orcs. He caught sight of Aragorn, struggling to his feet from beneath a huge troll and suddenly Elladan himself slipped on the bloody mass beneath his feet, a slippery mess of entrails that steamed and stank...he went down heavily and as he scrambled to stay upright, his fingers caught on something that almost leapt into his hand.

A darkness seemed to descend on him, shadows stretched and distorted, and suddenly the Dark Tower seemed to be aware of him. It was like the Eye had shifted its focus and searched. In his hand he felt a thrum of power and dark lust. Something thrilled through him. It had tasted the iron tang, the delight of blood. It thirsted still.

Aícanaro!

Elladan almost dropped it for it was a serpent of darkness and betrayal and he wondered how had it fallen from his brother's hand? But it seemed to curl, coil about his hand and hiss, the dark runes he had never noticed before writhed and entwined about the blade. He stared at it, slowly realising what power he held, and slowly, as if mesmerized, he sheathed his own frost-bright sword.

It dawned on him then, that Elrohir was without a weapon. Despite its dark lineage, never before had Aícanaro slipped from his brother's grasp, not even in the deepest battle. Why now? Elrohir must already be lost if Aícanaro had abandoned him; the Nazgûl would not suffer the sword to survive if it fell into their hands. It was too great an enemy to risk amongst them, he knew. And it had come to him instead...

Suddenly the thin wailing deepened, darkened and in the thunder that growled and rumbled around the mountains, he heard again the dreadful Voice and this time, the words were more distinct and he glanced down at the dark-bladed sword and wondered if he could now hear the words because Aícanaro enabled him to.

Ash...

nazg...

durbatulûk...

The great roaring of battle grew like a storm, or a wildfire devouring the forest, consuming everything. Crimson fire leapt in great flashes and bolts from Barad-dûr, as if a giant in black armour were hurling fire bolts into battle.

Horror drove Elladan hurtling at an Orc that stood between him and the Nazgûl. He thrust Aícanaro into its belly and barely paused in his panic, shoving it away and pushed through the jostling seething mass of Men and Orcs that blocked his way. The sword sang, its blade thrummed, an edge of steel in the wind.

'Elrohir!' he shouted. A thin scream pierced the noise of battle, rose above the clashing swords, the moans of the dying and injured and the hoarse cawing of the snapping beasts. And suddenly he was through.

The Nazgûl were gathered about a shape huddled at their feet; it moaned and struggled weakly. Darkness rippled and wavered like water and there was again, that voice, darker, deeper that uttered the dreadful curse that would bind Elrohir forever to the will of their Master.

ash nazg gimbatul...

A dull gleam showed him the iron crown they forced upon Elrohir. In that moment, Elladan felt a power that coiled and writhed. Aícanaro. Its unearthly metal could strike through any earth-born iron and he lifted the great sword and struck out in a wide arc at the circling Nazgûl.

He clashed with the blades that whirled about to meet it, great swords held high and two handed, clanged against Aícanaro. Sparks flew from the great swords and the Nazgûl drew back, hissing and peering at the black weapon. He felt the sword thrum with delight; it hungered for the darkness of the Nazgûl, sought to quench its thirst on their power.

He lunged forwards with renewed hope but the wraiths seemed reluctant to risk Aícanaro's wrath, remembering Khamûl's fall perhaps, for they each fell back before the edge of that black metal. The wind fluttered the edges of thin black shrouds and it felt like the battle had fallen away too, the noise and din dying away in the smoke and vapour.

In the quiet that was left, he saw a dark figure rise slowly from the earth, tall and strong, with long silk-black hair lifting on the wind. A dull gleam on its brow, an iron crown and on its hand gleamed a ring with a crimson jewel, like an eye.

Elladan barely gasped, a dreadful pain in his chest pressed down upon him. Elrohir.

Ash...

...nazg...

...durbatulûk...

His brother's grey eyes were hard as flint, as steel, and his noble, stern face impassive, implacable. In his hand a blade gleamed dully. A Morgul blade. Elladan knew he was doomed; he could never strike down his own brother. The Nazgûl had anticipated that and sent Elrohir against him.

Ash...

...nazg...

... gimbatul,

'No. No...Elrohir!' Elladan heard his own voice moan and he shook his head, a pang squeezed his heart. 'Elrohir, fight this! You are NOT Nazgûl, you are NOT one of them.'

...Ash nazg thrakatulûk...

And it was not the Nazgûl that spoke. Richer, deeper, like darkness itself, that Voice again in the thunder, insinuated itself into Elladan's heart, seeking him just as it had pursued his brother He fought it.

...agh burzum-ishi krimpatul...

The Voice resonated, echoed, with the beat of his blood in his ears, with the beat of his heart, in his bones...Bound. In darkness...

He fought it but he wanted to kneel before his brother. Elladan gripped Aícanaro. He strove to stay in his place, but his feet moved as if he were no longer in control. He felt himself bow and Aícanaro was still in his hand. The Voice was resonant, like the Song.

...agh burzum-ishi krimpatul...

A flash of dull metal and Elladan fixed his frightened eyes upon the Morgul blade now wielded by his brother, Lord of the Nazgul.

Come. Vassal. You will be Nine.

No! Not this. To die by his brother's hand, to be captured himself as a wraith.

Elrohir raised the Morgul blade high and Elladan gripped dark Aícanaro, he could not move, a will stronger than his, stronger than anything, a Maiar's will kept him in place and the Nazgûl circled them both. Darkness roiled about them and there were dark chanting voices, words scattered like spider webs across his skin.

Rávëyon... Lord...

...agh burzum-ishi krimpatul...

He felt the cold breath of the Nazgûl drawing close now and closer. Their naked hunger...and Aícanaro rang like a glass goblet with their closeness but Elladan could not lift it, could not wield the black blade.

Aícanaro...this time thou shalt not survive. This time thou shalt melt in the heat of the One.

It was so hot, as hot as Oroduin. The darkness was limned with red fire which grew brighter and brighter and he could not turn away, or raise his hands to his face.

I see you.

A sense of absolute terror struck him and he felt a wetness at his thigh. A great Eye opened high, high up in the darkness that was Barad-dûr but its brightness, its dreadful Power searched and pierced the dark like a spear, lit Elrohir so he was like the Barad-dûr itself; a black-clad warrior lit by red fire so his armour no longer gleamed with mithril's purity, but a crimson fire that reflected the fire of the Eye. Elladan cowered before him. Rávëyon.

Nine you are again. Bring me Ash Nazg.

Elrohir raised the Morgul blade and Elladan thought he saw a tremor in his lifted hand, saw his brother blink but slowly, inexorably stepping towards Elladan. Crimson lightning caught on the blade and Elladan watched breathless as his brother approached, his eyes hooded and dark, the Morgul blade gleamed dully in his hand and his knuckles were white. He was tense and coiled and Elladan could see the fight.

Elladan stilled himself. Held Aícanaro lightly, feeling the sword tremble, for Aícanaro recognised the hand that had held him for centuries, had brought him back out of the vault into the light once more, and the sword seemed to speak.

Rávëyon...Lord. I will not be bound.

00o0o0oo0o

Legolas gasped, clutching his chest and lying on his back where he had been thrown by the death throes of the troll. He rolled, panic-stricken and breathless, onto his side and found himself face to face with a dead soldier of Gondor; the man's mouth was open and his eyes staring and his throat had been ripped out. Gory tubes and veins trailed from the gaping hole in his throat and blood spread thickly over his lower face, neck and chest. Legolas recoiled in horror, and even though he still could not breathe, he scooted away quickly.

Suddenly a clawed hand caught his shoulder and dragged him round.

'It's alive!' shouted a gleeful voice. Orcs' grinning faces leaned over him, darker, shadows and light, even more horrific than usual and their yellow teeth lengthened into fangs.

He recognised the slow poison must have a hallucinogenic effect similar to spider venom, but it didn't matter now anyway.

It is over, he thought and was annoyed with himself for being so careless. His knives were still thrust into the troll's twitching, quivering corpse not far away. Too far, he thought wearily, and gasped for breath that would not come. His lungs were burning and he blinked against the falling darkness and the fire that spread slowly through his arm now. He hoped Aragorn was all right.

There were sheets of white light flashing in the sky all around him, above the gathered Orcs. One approached him, leering, and gave him a hard, hard kick in the belly, shouting something in its own wicked tongue and another kicked his at his head...and though he rolled and covered his head with his hands, he still saw white stars explode and he thought he heard thundering. An Orc kicked him again and there was a frightening pain in his side and stomach and he felt a bubble of blood in his throat. A blade was raised high above him. It flashed in the lightning and plunged towards him...

...clattered on the armour of the dead Man lying next to him. The Orc toppled over and suddenly the others turned too and were met by a mighty cry 'Baruk Khazad! Khazad ai-menu!' Black liquid sprayed everywhere and gobs of black gore spattered his face.

Legolas almost wept as a strong square hand reached down to him. Warmth of a forge, comforting as a hearth, reached down into him, poured into him where Gimli grasped his hand.

'Are ye going to lie around like that all day?' Gimli asked. 'There's work to be done and here I find you taking your ease!'

Gimli's great war axe was spattered with blood and stringy black stuff looped and dripped over the blade. His face was smudged with rust coloured blood and one earth-brown eye was half closed but they still gleamed like jewels. He bared his white teeth and dropped his gaze to the blood-soaked sleeve of Legolas' tunic. He reached down to touch it briefly, Legolas winced for it felt like fire.

'It's slow. Not like spider venom...' Legolas gasped and rolled to a sitting position, recovering his breath. He was not sure if his belly hurt more than his head where the Orcs had kicked him with their iron-shod feet.

Gimli met his eyes seriously but did not speak at first. Then he said, 'Mail armour.' The Dwarf tapped his own dwarven hauberk. 'Does nothing but slow you down, does it? You Woodelves will never learn.' But his eyes were deep with concern.

With a curl of distaste, Legolas took the water Gimli held out to him and poured it over the wound as if it might do any good. He then tore off a strip of cloth from his already frayed sleeve and swiftly tied it above the wound using his teeth and other hand. It would have to do. He had had worse before in his long life, and this would slow the poison even more in spite of his exertion. Later he might even be glad of it, he thought wryly, remembering images of flames and blood and sex.

There was no time to think about any of that now, nor did he want to, hoping it was but the Nazgûl's cruel malice that played on suspicion and fear. Around them, the battle raged and Men and Orcs were locked in battle that so quickly, so easily they were being beaten back.

'Aragorn?'

'He is on his feet, up there.' Gimli nodded towards the hilltop. 'Now, get your weapons. We need to stand.' Gimli reached down and pulled Legolas to his feet.

Everything hurt; his ribs hurt when he breathed but at least now he could breath a little better. His head was still reeling from the pounding given him by the Orcs but at least they lay dead at the feet of the Dwarf. But the slow fire spread up his arm towards his heart regardless of the tourniquet, such as it was. Legolas limped towards the dead bulk that was the troll, pulling his knives from its flesh. His chest and head felt crushed, pain-filled and he felt a warmth trickle down into his eyes and wiped it away. His hand came away red but he thought he looked no better than Gimli.

'You look terrible,' he observed to the Dwarf. But Gimli did not grin back. Instead, and more worryingly, he patted Legolas' arm gently and led him towards the hillside. Above, they could see Aragorn ordering the last defence.

Aragorn stood tall in spite of the imminent defeat, the wind whipped his hair into his eyes and pulled his cloak out behind him but Legolas thought he saw a star on his brow and there was majesty in him in spite of the blood and dirt. He thought he heard the sough of great wings...but it was different from the Nazgûls' reptiles. It carried the sound of the wind in the high mountains, of snow and crisp high blue skies...

'Come Legolas. We need to join Aragorn,' Gimli pulled his arm more urgently now but Legolas looked up because the eagles were above him now and their great wings were golden, catching the molten lightning, wheeling above, diving at the grounded reptilian steeds who could only snap and wail. Strangely he wanted to go amongst them, for the hides gleamed silver and smooth... He blinked slowly, realising the poison was making him slow, making him see things differently.

The wind was hot, fiery, like a great forge and the smell and taste of iron and copper in the air. Like blood, Legolas thought and the soft ground squelched a little beneath his feet. It had been stony when he fell, he thought slowly staring at the ground. It seemed dark and red and rich where before it had been thin dust.

'Come, Legolas!' Gimli shouted anxiously once again. Legolas turned slowly. The ground shook and saw that a pair of trolls pounded towards them, clenched in their meaty fists were huge flanged maces, each one the size of a Dwarf.

'Too late, Legolas! Stand!' Gimli grabbed his arm and flung him round, pulled his arms in front of him so the knives were before him. Legolas stared at the way the lightning poured liquid fire over the runes engraved on the white blades. The words seemed to dance on the white metal.

And then the trolls were upon them. Elf and Dwarf fought back to back, but it seemed to Legolas that time had slowed and everything poured over him and nothing hurt. His body acted out of instinct, watching for the moment the troll smashed at him with the mace and then ducking beneath their blows and slashing hard at the softer skin round the knees, belly, the groin, the thighs. There were eagles too, he slowly realised, diving at the trolls' heads so the trolls lifted their hands to protect their eyes and the Elf could reach below and drive his blades beneath them, gutting them. He heard Gimli's war cry as if from very far away and he turned slowly to watch the Dwarf swing his axe in a great arc and cut open the chest of the troll so it fell back with a horribly gurgling cry.

Above them, the lightning raged and thunder rolled around and around. A sheet of white fire lit the hilltop, tinged red and the red grew deeper, stronger, overwhelming the white fire. His head was still filled with ringing from being kicked, and Legolas thought he heard huge, crashing, titanic voices in the thunder itself.

...Olórin...

He paused to listen for a moment but Gimli shouted to him and he shook himself in time to draw his blades across the throat of an ugly Orc and turned to block a thrust from behind him. He stumbled unbelievably and felt Gimli reach back to pull him upright. Legolas shook his head slowly, for he could no longer see as clearly as he should. He glanced around him, blinking slowly, and saw Gandalf, standing high on the hill, beneath the black banner that streamed out in the hot scorching wind. Gandalf's white robes flattened about him, red flames seemed to flicker over him though there was no fire near, his hair streamed back, pulled back, and it seemed the wind tore at him like teeth.A Voice called through the thunder...

...Olórin...

Legolas felt his hands slippery with blood and he gripped the blades more tightly and whirled and slashed. His head swam and before him, the wave of Orcs shimmered and it seemed to him that Barad-dûr was a relentless titanic warrior clad in obsidian armour, looming over the field of battle, reaching out to crush the West, to pound them into blood and dust. A red lidless Eye flamed in its black helm. Against it, stood Gandalf, and he sent a bolt of white fire, hurled it against the invincible black armour of Barad-dûr.

Legolas turned his face briefly towards Gandalf one more time as the tide of Orcs pressed upon the Elf and Dwarf and he felt Gimli slip. He knew he was shouting but could not hear himself, could not hear anything but the storm of Voices, of Powers, like the roll of thunder.

Long since I heard you speak my name...Aürušur you once called me.

White fire, sheets of lightning surrounded him, blazed through with red and great bolts of flame leapt from Gandalf's staff and sped towards the Tower. Legolas glanced upwards and thought he saw the light grow and build to suddenly explode skywards in a spiraling stream of Song. His heart had never heard anything more lovely and tears streamed down his face for he never would again, he thought. Great chords struck and crashed against the darkness and discord. The Song, the Music rose up in great waves and he thought of it breaking like huge silver waves against the impregnable Barad-dûr as he fought and fought and fought, and was slowly, inexorably beaten back by the huge wave of Orcs, like a landslide, Gimli at his side.

And then, a great chord, like a deep bell...resonant with power and longing. Like the call of the Ring. A pulse...trembled through the air, rippled through the earth...

Mairon...

It was a cry. Of loss and yearning.

0o0o0o0ooo

Elladan felt himself seized and thrown to the ground before his brother. The claw hands that grasped him were cold and he felt as if ice was driven through his veins, towards his heart. His blood became sluggish and his thoughts slowed like a great river turning to ice. He raised his eyes slowly upwards to see his brother and he seemed to tower above him, a great warrior clad in armour turned black by the darkness and twilight. A manifestation of Barad-dûr itself. Elladan could no longer see his brother's face and Elrohir moved slowly as if compelled.

Elladan caught his breath as his brother wavered where he stood before the Brethren, the Nazgûl. He could see more clearly now; Elrohir's eyes were squeezed together and his lips thinned in pain. His free hand raised as if detached from himself and he reached, grasping, towards Elladan, towards Aícanaro. He hesitated, and then drew his hand back, lifted his hand to trail his fingers strangely over the iron crown. It gleamed dully.

He took a hesitant step forwards, compelled, and then faltered...his eyes cleared momentarily and his hand lifted again, dipped as if it were too heavy.

'Elrohir!' Elladan whispered, for it was so hard to form words, his own tongue felt slow and his thoughts were like ice, like the glaciers of the Helcaraxë. 'Elrohir...'

Elrohir raised his head slowly. His eyes gleamed for a moment and rested on Elladan. There was an imperceptible lift of his mouth and Elladan felt his heart soar with sudden hope. His fingers gripped Aícanaro and the sword thrummed with a dark power, still thirsty. As if Aícanaro had somehow cleared his own mind, Elladan watched intently, saw how Elrohir's weight shifted slightly, the whiteness of his knuckles around the Morgul blade and the tightening of his mouth. He tuned his own body to his brother's...

'Ai Elbereth,' he whispered, and a slow still part of him trusted Elrohir, called upon their rich blood, their own incipient power to resist, as had Luthien, Elwing.

A sudden bolt of brilliant light launched from the hilltop, arcing high above, and thrust into the ground nearby. The Nazgûl spun towards it, shrieking furiously and he saw Elrohir explode from their dark sorcery. In that one moment of inattention, Elrohir hurled the Morgul blade, screaming past Elladan towards the Nazgûl that held Elladan. The blade streaked cold air past Elladan's cheek and he was released abruptly. Struggling to his feet, and without thought, without pause, he lifted Aícanaro. With a rush of delight, the sword flashed and hurtled like a flaming bolt into the Wraith. The blade clashed against the iron armour beneath the thin black shroud and he felt the armour buckle and give. Aícanaro sang with wild, blood thirsty delight and he thrust deeper. The Nazgûl writhed and shrieked and the shroud seemed to incinerate, blazed skywards in a wailing, shrieking stream of shadows that fled upwards into the furious wind that swirled and shrieked.

The Brethren surged about Elrohir now with furious cries, their thin wailing shrieks deafening, chilling the blood and reaching deep into marrow, squeezing the heart. Elrohir opened his mouth and a terrible cry came from his lips, of anguish and pain as if he struggled against some great terror and iron will, and then he fell silent.

Abruptly the shrieking stopped.

The Brethren turned wildly towards Barad-dûr. For a moment, everything was still and Elrohir dropped his hands and then, like the Brethren, he too turned to stare feverishly at the Black Tower.

Hot fiery wind pulled at the thin shrouds of the Nazgûl, so they streamed like shadows. Dust swirled and the ground began to tremble. The Nazgûl lifted their terrible voices in a wailing chorus of fury and fled towards the great beasts who were restless and agitated, lifting their blunt reptilian heads on long sinuous necks and scenting the wind. The Nazgûl leapt astride their beasts and the great wings unfurled. Huge haunches bunched and the fell beasts sprang into the air, lifted on the wind that blew furiously from the West.

Elrohir leapt after them and Elladan caught at him, still clutching Aícanaro, wrestling him to the ground.

'No! No, you cannot go with them! Elrohir, come back to me!' he cried. Struggling against him, Elrohir punched him hard in the face and Elladan recoiled but he did not let go. He beat Elrohir with the hilt of Aícanaro and though Elrohir struggled, he could not shake free but dragged them both towards the one remaining beast, which stretched its great wings and crouched ready to fly.

'Ash nazg!' Elrohir shouted like one delirious. 'Gimbatul!' He dragged Elladan after him, the scorching wind tore at them, pulling back their long black hair, swirling the red-limned dust in great clouds.

The Brethren were already hurtling back towards the Tower and the remaining steed gave a blood-chilling cry, and gave a mighty leap into the air, flapping its great wings it circled and circled and Elrohir screamed in fury. Elladan felt the earth shake beneath his feet and grabbed at Elrohir. He seized at the iron crown and tried to force it from his brother's head.

'Take it off, Elrohir! Take it off!'

'Never! Though the Tower falls, I will remain...' He turned and shoved Elladan away from him, and stood tall and strong. His face was hard, like flint and the crown seemed lit by a red glow from the Tower. 'I see now! You want it for yourself!'

Elladan sprang at him then and wrestled with his brother. He grasped the iron crown, and tried again to wrench it from his brother's brow. Elrohir gripped it strongly and Elladan pounded his brother's hand with the hilt of Aícanaro. And then suddenly it was in Elladan's hand, so cold it burned.

He hurled the crown away as far as he could. It arced brightly, a flash of red and fell to the ground. Elrohir gave a cry and sprang after it.

Elladan launched himself and brought Elrohir down. 'Give me the Ring!' he shouted and the two brothers went down again, rolling, punching, kicking in the dirt, insensible to the Trolls and Orcs that looked up startled and then fled the rumbling, lurching ground.

'I will see you dead before I let you become as they!' Elladan shouted above the thundering, crashing wind that tore at them now both where they struggled on the ground. Suddenly Elladan felt the ground give a little beneath him. He stared. The ground was opening up around them, great chasms and crevices were cracking open in the earth.

He looked around suddenly alarmed. The wind roared from the West, through the open Gates, over the Mountains and huge rainclouds churned after it. A great chasm opened up only yards away from them, yawning wide, like the earth had simply dropped away. Far, far below, the darkness swirled and twisted and from its depths came a tumult of fell voices, howling and the wind poured into it, pushing everything foul and corrupt into the chasm. It seemed to Elladan there were immense horns blowing and a pronouncement of Doom. He tore his riveted gaze away with great will and fixed fastened upon the face of his brother who looked at him in terror and love.

'It is the Void!' he whispered in horror. 'Take off the Ring, Elrohir. Quickly.' He grabbed at Elrohir's hand where they lay entangled. The wind pulled at them both and suddenly they were dragged along the stony ground towards the chasm. Elladan lifted Aícanaro and dug the blade into the ground, holding on for their lives. 'The Ring. Take it off, Elrohir! Take it off!'

'I cannot! It will not come!' Elrohir shouted furiously and Elladan suddenly knew the truth of it; it would not easily release him for it would be swallowed into the Void. The wind tore at them both and Elladan felt his hand on the hilt of Aícanaro slip slightly.

Then Elrohir looked upon him with such love and he felt him open his hand. 'Let me go, Elladan.'

'No! I will not let you go!' he shouted and gripped him harder. Raindrops splashed heavily onto his skin and made his fingers slippery. He felt a thrum nearby, a coil of power. Aícanaro slid deeper into the trembling ground but the earth fractured around it and sank a little.

Elladan scrambled forward as far as he could against the hurricane that dragged at them both, but Elrohir's hand felt so cold, like burning. The wind caught Elrohir and tugged and pulled and ripped over them both. The ground splintered beneath Aícanaro and they were both dragged along the stony ground towards the chasm.

'Elladan! Let go!' shouted Elrohir, bawling above the roar of the wind now. 'It will take us both...I cannot take it off unless you let me go!'

'No...' Elladan heard his voice sob but it was true. 'Reach up. I will take it from you and throw it into the Void. Reach!'

Elrohir's face turned up to him in desperate love and shook his head at first. But Elladan saw he knew there was no other way and he reached up and his fingers caught on the circle of cold fire.

And he thought how easily he could slip the Ring from Elrohir's hand now, and let go; the Void would take Elrohir. It was no more than he deserved after all. He himself was pure and would be spared...He barely noticed how easily it slipped from Elrohir's hand then and ...

And suddenly Elladan was dragged and torn by the wind and Elrohir had pulled Aícanaro from his grasp and seized Elladan's shoulder. The wind still tore at them both but it seemed to swirl and eddy around them, pulling their long silk-black hair into one long plume, lightning flashed in their grey eyes.

'You would take it from me now?' Elladan accused angrily. But Elrohir pulled him back from the chasm.

'Throw it into the Void, Elladan,' his brother's voice came and he felt wrapped in crimson warmth. But how could he?

'Elladan...it has you now.'

Suddenly Elladan looked at the small circle in his hand though the wind buffeted and tore at him. The Ring's red gem glowed angrily, furiously, brighter, hotter and there in the East rose a huge shadow, impenetrable, lightning crowned, filling all the sky. Enormous it reared above the whole field of battle and stretched out towards the brothers, reaching a vast threatening hand as if to take them to drag them into darkness with it. It leaned over them both at the very moment Elladan tossed the Ring away from him and Elrohir raised the black metal blade high above his head and struck down upon the Ring with a terrible force.

There were sparks and a flash and something hurled away, sucked into the Void. The great shadow writhed and twisted and spiraled in a great wind that sucked it down and down into the great blackness of the Earth and Elrohir was there, clinging to him still and the last Ring, Angmar's ring was gone.

The earth still shook and trembled and the wind still tore at them but it had lost its malicious edge, as if the wind merely sought to return all that was evil to the Void and now the Ring had gone, it was content to leave them.

Elladan looked up and great fat raindrops splattered on his face. Boulders rattled and rumbled around them and he realised they were beneath the landslide that Legolas had been standing upon when they had galloped back from the Gate. He thought they had travelled further. He felt Elrohir slide his arm beneath his shoulder and haul him to his feet.

'Come, we must make for the hill. I think we will be safer standing with Gandalf.'

They saw the great golden eagles flying swiftly towards the fallen Tower and they leaned against each other, stumbling over the slain as they made their way over the collapsing earth and up the hillside. He tasted salt and knew that he was ridiculously weeping and laughed because his heart was lighter than it had been since the One Ring had been uncovered. He heard shouting and turned his head to see Men wildly waving and shouting. He smiled and pulled Elrohir's head closer to his chest and kissed the top of his head.

00o0o0o0o0oo

Legolas had listened, amazed, felt in his blood the slow pulse. Like a hammer had struck a huge bronze bell, the note resonated, throbbed, trembled, shimmered in the air, pulsed outwards and everything slowed...the Song had changed. The notes spiraled, grew, spiraled wider and soared and soared into a crescendo. A huge infinite Song that lifted and curled and swelled and wheeled about Barad-dûr... He thought it must be the effect of the poison that was pulsing hot in his veins now.

Legolas looked down at his feet and saw the dust tremble and his eyes widened. Suddenly Gimli grabbed his arm and pulled at him; they sprang away, from one patch of trembling earth to another, up the hillside towards Gandalf and Aragorn. Gimli moved with unexpected agility, picking a sure-footed path up the slope, away from the collapsing ground. Around them, surviving Men too were scrambling up the slopes, clambering over the piles of corpses, slipping on the blood for many bodies were slick and wet.

There was a roar from the Gates of Mordor, as if from the throat of one colossal titanic creature, and Legolas glanced back over his shoulder, thinking a Balrog had been unleashed as the Enemy's final desperate weapon. He stumbled and fell hard against Gimli but the Dwarf was like the earth and stood strong.

'What new devilry is this?' Gimli muttered in a horrible echo of Legolas' own thoughts as he pulled Legolas to his feet. The sky whirled above Legolas, glowed red and gold and he narrowed his eyes against the glare for there were gold streaming stars shooting up into the sky... like a river of gold that spurted high into the skies...he looked for shadows and flame for it came from Mount Doom.

There was a storm of blinding flashes, crimson lightning, from Barad-dûr itself, like the sun had exploded, and red flaming bolts shot into the air. The roar grew louder and louder until Legolas thought the mountains would fall and the earth crumbled beneath them...

But the Song soared...triumphant. So he frowned. It could not be a Balrog if the great spiraling notes crashed in a symphony that thundered with victory and the discord twisted and melted. Legolas felt his heart would burst. Could it be true? He thought Oromë must be sounding his horns, that Ulmo had released the tempest, and the winds tamed by Manwë had been thrown free into the skies.

He realised that Gimli had stopped, had let go of Legolas' arm in astonished wonder and was gazing upwards. Legolas blinked for his eyes were blurred and the world rocked under him. He stumbled again and Gimli caught him. When he looked up, there were tears in Gimli's eyes.

'They've done it,' he whispered. 'They've done it!'

Time finally undid the sorcery that bound Barad-dûr; the first great slabs of masonry slid slowly and crashed onto the trembling, shifting earth that opened to receive it. Barad-dûr shattered like obsidian glass.

Legolas blinked again but his eyes couldn't focus...

'Frodo and Sam,' cried Gimli, holding Legolas upright for he had slipped and sat hard on the shaking ground. 'They've done it! Legolas! They've done it!'

And then suddenly the air was filled with the sound of rushing wings and shouting and there was a blur of gold and white. Gandalf was astride one of the great eagles and with him were the other eagles and they sped towards Mount Doom. The triumph died on his lips and he felt Gimli grip his arm.

'Pray they live,' Gimli murmured and his fingers began to move in those mysterious little gestures Legolas had seen but twice before.

Legolas could not move for all he could think of was two small hobbits clinging together at the last, in that river of fire that poured from the mountain. And he joined Gimli in his own desperate prayer.

Gimli glanced down then at Legolas and seemed to notice for the first time that his head lolled to his left a little and his eyes were glazed. 'Suppose we best get you to Aragorn, get that cut sorted out,' he said gruffly but his eyes were anxious and he began shouting for help.

'...'s only a scratch,'Legolas tried to say but his mouth would not move and his tongue felt thick. 'Feels like spider venom...makes you sleep...'

00ooo0o0o0oooo

Mairon- In some of Tolkien's earlier work he refers to Mairon as Sauron's original name.

Aürušur -From valarin (source: Ardalambion) stem word: gawa meaning devise or craft + rušur - fire.

And of course:

Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul,

Ash nazg thrakatulûk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.

One ring to rule them all, one ring to find them,

One ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them.

pushdug: Orcish word of contempt. Dungfilth. I don't think Legolas would shy away and cower from the Black Speech. Soldiers often use their enemy's words against them and Mirkwood would do that.

'Azgar-snaga! - Snaga- slave. Azgar is the shortened form of Azgarâzir –The Nazgul's name for Thranduil, whom they hate more than any other ruler for his defence and war against them in Dol Guldur. Although it was the White Council that overthrew Sauron as the Necromancer at the end of The Hobbit, Thranduil it was who continuously fought them. Literally "wage war" cf. azaggara - at least all this is true in my version.

So...next chapter: I am not quite sure whether to extend it a little and let you enjoy the suffering or just cut straight to the Field of Cormellen. Feedback on this will help me to decide how much more of this there is.   
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Chapter End Notes:

 

Elrohir's crown, by Mienpies.


	43. The Black Web

Special thanks to Spiced Wine who has written a wonderful spin-off on another fanfic site, Faerie, run by Esteliel, which tells a story of Aícanaro and its origins. And I suspect in part at least, some of this later chapter may well have been influenced by her fabulous work. There is a nod to her wonderful OC, Vanimórë and her story in this.*

 

Beta: Anarithilien. .

 

 

Chapter 43: The Black Web.

 

The earth still groaned and shook and Elladan felt the tremors beneath his feet. Half way up the hill, he turned to stare. It seemed that those Orcs and Trolls that had not been sucked into the great chasms had plunged terrified through the rearguard, disappearing into the Mountains and now there were very few to be seen. But still a few proud and bold Men from the East and South gathered, in their turn, for a last stand of desperate battle. Even now they were arranging themselves into a wedge bristling with spears. Banners of crimson and gold fluttered above them and they readied to meet a new assault from Gondor and her allies.

 

Elladan rubbed his eyes. He had had enough of battle, of fighting, enough of the blood and killing. But he knew that for Elrohir it was different. He would still want to fight. He was not alone; there were small groups of Men scattered about the hillside, waiting for someone to give an order, to emerge from the chaos and lead them on to further battle.

 

He glanced over to where Elrohir stood. Aícanaro was not yet sheathed and its tip rested on the stony ground. A rill of thick red blood slid slowly down the dark blade, gleamed in the half-light. The wind lifted Elrohir's long black hair slightly and fluttered the edge of his cloak. He did not look at Elladan. Instead he kept his eyes trained on some fixed point in the Mountains. He frowned as if he half-recognised something*, stared for a moment and then slowly turned away, his gaze sweeping over Elladan as if he were not even there.

 

Elladan frowned and reached out, touching Elrohir on the arm, closing his hand over his brother's. 'What is this?' he asked softly. 'You are still in shadow. Come back to me.'

 

Elrohir slowly brought his gaze back to focus upon Elladan and he almost recoiled. Elrohir's eyes still blazed with ferocious thirst, his pupils dilated, black, and Elladan saw himself reflected in them strangely. His own face seemed distorted, pulled askew and elongated as if he were a ghoul. He shuddered. The darkness that had cloaked them both was still too close. His hand clenched the hilt of his own frost-bright sword and he remembered how Aícanaro had seemed to leap into his hand, and blaze in delight at the slaughter. Staring into Elrohir's blank, lovely face, Elladan felt a chill, like icy fingers, trace his spine.

 

'Elrohir?' He touched his brother again, flooded him with cool peace, held his hand out to him, and this time, slowly, Elrohir looked up as if clearing his thoughts. 'Come. Let us join Aragorn,' Elladan invited softly, gently as if to a sleeping child. He stroked his hand over Elrohir's smooth hair. 'There will be many wounded and we will be needed...Elrohir?' he called softly, and laid his hand upon his brother's arm.

 

Slowly Elrohir blinked and his lips moved silently.

 

'Go.' His voice seemed to come from far away, his eyes once more unfocused and distant. He seemed to gather himself and then spoke again.

 

'Go.' His voice was so soft Elladan could barely hear him. 'You will find some warmth and peace...But that is not for me.' Elrohir stood silent and thoughtful, and then seemed to grow stronger, as if he came back into his own skin. Slowly he raised his head and shrugged himself loose so Elladan's arm fell to his side.

 

'You would have me heal the injured,' Elrohir said slowly. 'You will find your peace that way, brother but I cannot heal anyone.' His eyes stared at the drops of blood clinging to the blade of Aícanaro. 'I am...too full of lust and hate..'

 

Elladan did not reply at first; he knew it was true. He had seen the violence and anguish of Elrohir's revenge upon their enemies, not only the Orcs of the Mountains but Men, the unquenchable thirst for blood, lust that pounded in his veins and earned them the name, Sons of Thunder.

 

'I know what you have done,' Elladan said softly. 'I know what you are.' He stepped close and leaned in towards his brother. 'And still I love you. Still I see what is good and noble.'

 

At that, Elrohir looked up and his grey eyes were clear. 'Always you see what is best in me, even now.' He reached out and lightly touched Elladan's face. 'You are so pure, Elladan.' He smiled bitterly. 'The Nazgul saw what I am. I have not changed. '

 

Elladan felt such sharp pain in his chest. 'I almost lost you,' he said quietly and he pulled his brother close, pressed his lips against Elrohir's dark head. It was not the first time, Elladan thought, remembering the depths of winter when Elrohir had returned alone and late, too late in the year to be riding alone through the mountain passes. He remembered the strange wounds and the haunted look in his brother's eyes. He could see Elrohir watching him knowingly, his eyes soft with understanding, almost pity.

 

'It is what makes me what I am. The darkness. I am akin more to Men than the Elves.'

 

Elrohir held his gaze and it seemed to Elladan that there was more in those words than were spoken. Yet had Elrohir not chosen? He had told Elladan as much back in Minas Tirith, had he not?

 

'Say not so, not here,' said Elladan and he knew he was pleading, that Elrohir was very still, listening to what lay beyond the words. 'The shadows afflict you still.'

 

Elrohir smiled tenderly, gently. 'Do not fear for me, Elladan,' he said softly and the irony was not lost on Elladan that it was Elrohir who sought to comfort him now. 'I am not lost. Not yet...I need to purge myself of this...this darkness.' He smiled tenderly, touched Elladan's cheek. Elladan found that harder to bear than his anger or coldness. He pushed his hand though his hair in a small gesture of helpless distress, knowing he could not change Elrohir's mind.

 

'Go to Aragorn. Lend him your healing and I will lend him my sword.' Elrohir said. 'We each do our work best. I will find you. Wait for me.'

 

There was a flurry of gold and white hurtling through the grey skies above them and both raised their heads, watching as the eagle dwindled to nothing over the fallen towers and vanished in the skies over Mordor.

 

'They are alive,' Elrohir said quietly and Elladan looked at him, knowing the sight was upon his brother at that moment. 'They are weary and heartsore but they will survive...not unscathed though.' He frowned as though he were trying to see into a darkened glass. 'There is another though, lost and in pain...I cannot see...' He blinked and shook his head slightly as if ridding himself of a dream.

 

Abruptly Elrohir gained his feet, smoothly as though he had never been afflicted, and his cloak flowed around him like a shadow. He looked at Elladan for a moment and then he turned and strode down the hillside as if he had taken no wound, as if the Nazgul had merely inconvenienced him. He raised one gauntletted hand as he walked. Some few Men lifted their heads as he passed. And, after a moment of hesitation, they rose and followed him as if summoned. These were the Men whose hearts had no peace, who still wanted vengeance and their blood was hot. Elladan watched them gather about Elrohir. Baelderon was amongst them, his grief for his brother still darkened his eyes. Elrohir spoke. They did not cheer but their faces were grim and determined as Elrohir moved between them and Elladan could not help but think of them as shadowed.

 

oo0o0o0o0o0o0o

 

Aragorn stood on the hilltop for a moment, leaning on his sword, staring after the eagles that soared upwards, spiraling high and speeding over the Morannon. The grey half-light splintered on Gandalf's white robes and he gleamed for a moment like a falling star. Then they had dwindled swiftly to a gold spot against the grey sky and Aragorn could see them no longer. He stood staring for a moment after.

 

There was warmth against his arm and he started. Imrahil had come to stand beside him and his piercing blue eyes were intent on Aragorn. He held his great sword in one hand and in the other a bloody cloth which he had been sliding down the gleaming blade. Spatters of blood were on his blue surcoat.

 

'I am unhurt,' Aragorn said reassuringly in answer to the unspoken question. 'All my thoughts are with Gandalf.'

 

'Pray he finds the Periannath quickly,' Imrahil murmured, and handed back the bloody cloth to one of his Men. He seemed to pull himself erect and brought Aragorn's attention back to himself. 'Many men are shocked by these great events,' he observed, glancing around at the gathered soldiers who milled about, staring at the ground as if afraid it might start trembling again. 'It would be good to have them do something, my Lord. We are yours to command.'

 

Aragorn looked across the battle field, at the fallen corpses of Men. Already a crow had alighted on one upturned face and pulled at something stringy and red. If he had not been so used to war, he would have felt sick. Aragorn shook himself. Imrahil was right of course. He could not stand here waiting for Gandalf's return, and he was suddenly aware of the blood on his own blade. At his feet was a dead Orc, its mouth open in rictus and its eyes wild even in death. He stooped to wipe Anduril clean on its black tunic and then squinted down the blade to check it was clean.

 

He drove Anduril back into its sheath and addressed the captains who waited upon them, blood-stained and weary. 'Have the bodies of our own gathered. We will not leave them here unburied and open to carrion,' he said surveying the devastation.

 

Imrahil shifted slightly and his face was serious as he turned to Aragorn approvingly. 'It will be done, my Lord. Already the summons has gone to bring the wagons and horses.' Then he smiled as though he could not quite believe the end had come. 'We have won, my Lord. Sauron is gone.' His piercing blue eyes met Aragorn's. 'Now is the time to declare yourself, as you would not be declared before the city.'

 

Aragorn stroked his fingers over the delicate pendant at his neck. He blinked slowly, hardly able to believe that all his dreams would now come to pass. And yet, the cost.

 

Imrahil had turned his head and was looking down the slope towards the field of battle. Aragorn followed his gaze to where his own brothers stood; silver armour that seemed unstained by any blood, sable cloaks and hair like raven's wings. As if they sensed the scrutiny, the Sons of Elrond lifted their sharp grey eyes to where they stood. One smiled and lifted his hand in greeting, but the other stood like stone and ice.

 

Imrahil said nothing but watched for a moment and Aragorn wondered at his stillness. He turned his blue eyes back to Aragorn and the wind stroked his dark hair. 'The Lords of Imladris are said to be skillful healers, my Lord.'

 

'They are indeed,' Aragorn replied. He did not say that Elrohir would fight on until every last enemy was vanquished. 'Elladan will be here soon I'll warrant. He will want to heal, to cleanse himself of the killing.' Aragorn smiled. 'He is the gentler soul.'

 

'But fierce in battle.'

 

Aragorn glanced at Imrahil for though he spoke smoothly, his gaze lingered upon the Sons of Elrond. Aragorn frowned, wondering, and looked back to where his brothers moved slowly as if in a dream and one began to climb the slopes towards them and the other moved away, gathering Men about him like crows.

 

There was a sudden shout of greeting from behind them and they turned to see Eomer slowly picking his way towards them, holding his left side but looking otherwise unhurt. Aragorn rubbed his hand over his eyes, feeling the grit and dust on his own skin, seeing how Eomer's armour was mottled with dried blood and mud, how his hair was tangled and his face bloodied. He thought he himself could not look much better. But he was glad to see the younger Man uninjured and whole.

 

'Aragorn! Victory is ours!' Eomer's eyes were shining with triumph. His sword was still in his hand and gleamed brightly. He clasped Aragorn's arm and then turned to greet Imrahil. 'A good day, my friends. We will celebrate this for many a year to come and hold to our memories in our dotage.'

 

'Yes, my lords.' Imrahil inclined his head urbanely. 'Let us proclaim this great victory. Send news to the White City and our realms.' He looked at Eomer who nodded. 'Gather news of our allies in the North, Dale and Erebor and the Woodland Realm. And over the mountains to Imladris of course.'

 

'Yes, my messengers will take news to Rohan and beyond, even to the Golden Wood if you wish it,' Eomer said cautiously and Aragorn smiled inwardly. Even now, he could not shake off the superstition about Lothlorien. But Aragorn suspected that Galadriel and Elrond would already know.

 

'I will send messages South,' Imrahil said. 'And to the North, to Brand of Dale and to the Lonely Mountain. They can divert to Thranduil's realm in the forest and gather news of Dol Guldur, my lords,' Imrahil said, as if barely noticing Eomer's caution. But something had caught his blue eyes past Aragorn's shoulder. The urbane mask slipped for a moment and it seemed to Aragorn his handsome face shone.

 

Suddenly, before he could turn to see what had lit Imrahil, Aragorn was seized, caught up in a strong embrace. He pulled back instinctively and looked up into Elladan's grey eyes.

 

'It is done!' Elladan's face broke with joy. He threw his head back and laughed aloud. 'You, Estel, are King of Gondor!' His kind grey eyes smiled upon Aragorn and in a moment, Aragorn remembered all the times that Elladan had picked him up, dusted him off, dressed his scabby knees, held him when he sobbed over a broken heart...listened silently as he told him of his love for Arwen, and hers for him...

 

'I am glad that you are here with me,' he said and wished he could find the words to express the emotion that filled him. But Elladan knew, he could see it in the smile Elladan gave him, and felt it in the warmth of his clasp. They both laughed.

 

'And glad to see you whole,' he added relieved. 'Elrohir is still in battle?' he asked quietly.

 

'Give him a moment. So much happened at the last.' To Aragorn, Elladan looked distressed and he wondered what had happened during the battle. He had lost sight of them when the Nazgul had begun to plummet to the earth and he had been beset by a troll. 'It is too much to tell you now. He will come back to us. Look,' Elladan drew his attention to the battlefield below. 'He finishes the day for you.'

 

They turned and surveyed the plains before the fallen Morannon where the few Men from the East and South who had fought with Sauron, proud and bold, gathered for a last stand of desperate battle.

 

Elrohir's men charged the small desperate troop of Easterlings, their red robes bright though the light was dim, and blades flashed as they fought.

 

'They make a brave stand though the one they fought for has gone into dust. It is a pity they do not sue for peace,' Imrahil observed. 'They are proud and bold. Worthy opponents...Perhaps worthy allies too.' He turned and smiled at Elladan.

 

Elladan shifted and when Aragorn caught his glance and noticed a flicker of disquiet. 'I am of more use to you with the injured,' he said abruptly. 'I take my leave of you both. I am sure the healers can find some use for me.' He bowed and turned away, hastening down the hillside to where tents had sprung up. Red flags tied to poles fluttered above each tent and lines of men made their weary way towards them. Wagons rolled across the battle field now and filled slowly with those injured men who could be moved.

 

Aragorn was puzzled at Elladan's abrupt departure, but at that moment, other captains approached him and his attention was drawn to the ordering of the final skirmishes and the organisation of the army.

 

The banner of the White Tree flew proudly, the cinders and dust did not seem to show on it. Beside it, the Swan and Ship of Dol Amroth fluttered and, on the hilltop opposite, the banner of Rohan, the white horse on emerald field streamed proudly.

 

000ooo0o0oooo00ooooo

 

Elladan strode towards the camp that was moving, settling, restless. There were long snaking queues of injured Men over the muddy plains as the light grew dim and long shadows reached out. Elladan sighed and rubbed his eyes, unable to ignore the red cloud of pain that hung over so many of the men making their way towards the tents. And there were certainly not sufficient healers to deal with all of them.

 

He was welcomed by the Men who staffed the tents and who directed him to a large canvas tent divided up into three sections. One was filled with wounded men on narrow pallet beds lined up close to each other. There was the same crowd of noise that Elladan had heard on every battlefield; the tense and pain-filled murmur punctuated by a scream of agony that came from another section. Every now and again a healer would emerge from one of the other sections, looking harried and concerned, hands covered in blood and the inhabitants of the tent would fall silent, knowing some poor soul had lost a limb or passed onwards. Elladan hoped there would be few amputations.

 

He was shown to a place behind a white screen spattered with blood into the third section, his own surgery it seemed. One table was set up, wobbling on the uneven ground but it was being scrubbed clean by a hard pressed orderly, no more than a boy, with flaxen hair tied back and sharp blue eyes that slid away whenever Elladan looked his way.

 

Elladan nodded at the boy briefly and tied his long hair out of the way. He scrubbed his hands in a pail of hot water and dropped the soap back into it. It seemed the boy was his orderly for he sloshed the bloody water away outside the tent and then came back in shyly.

 

'My name is Elladan,' he said kindly. The boy nodded and blushed. 'And you are?' he prompted.

 

'They call me...B...Beren, my lord,' he said hanging his head.

 

Elladan hid a smile and the boy stammered on. 'It was my mother's favourite tale.

 

'A good name indeed,' Elladan did not smile when he met the boy's anxious gaze. 'Shall we start?'

 

00oo00o0o

 

The light had dimmed so Beren lit oil lamps. His awe had lessened in the blood and pain, but it did not stop him from being a brisk, efficient and kindly orderly, if a little unskilled. But he learned quickly and Elladan was pleased with him. It had been an endless stream of injured and wounded. They did not save them all.

 

Beren leaned over and wiped Elladan's face with cool water infused with athelas. Elladan glanced up, unseeing. They had settled into a rhythm, a pattern that suited them both and lulled the injured men. Elladan had found the place in his heart where moonlight stroked the still pools and the sky filled with stars. He no longer saw men, but simply different shapes and lights, edged with raw pain, red and sore. He touched the red edges and smoothed, soothed, healed.

 

He knew Beren had left him for a moment, felt the absence beside him and he sank onto the stool where those patients who could usually perched. He was exhausted. Battle had leaked from his bones now. The surge of energy that met the attack, that extra power had gone. And then he had spent hours pouring healing energy into those injured and wounded men who looked at him with desperate hope, clasping his hands. And there had been the Nazgul...he had sunk himself in healing so he did not have to think on that.

 

He was aware of a more frantic movement from Beren, a sense of panic and rushing. He lifted his weary eyes and saw Beren bringing someone in. A flash of gold hair and the head tilted cheekily on one side.

 

'Is this where you have been hiding, Elrondion?' The teasing voice was strained and he noticed the lines around the Elf's eyes. His lips were thin with pain and dry, and he remembered how erotic he had found that once...it still was.

 

'I have told him to sit and be still.' Gimli was close behind and somehow in spite of the Dwarf's relatively short stature, he seemed to fill the space far more than Legolas ever did.

 

Elladan frowned, immediately sighting the bloody cloth around Legolas' arm. It looked minor but there was a pungency to it that he could not name. It pricked at his memory.

 

'Come, sit here.' Although he was tired beyond thought, he stood and reached for Legolas. Beren lowered the Elf with such care he must think he would break, thought Elladan. Legolas sighed and looked up, hazy with pain, thought Elladan, noting the clammy skin of his face.

 

Legolas' smile had lost its dazzling radiance, and the brightness of his eyes was feverish. Elladan saw only the pain beneath the thin-lipped smile.

 

'Look at him please,' said Gimli and his voice was tight. 'He was caught with a poisoned blade. Here.' He pulled off the thin tourniquet and Elladan peered at it, narrowing his eyes so he was seeing with more than just his eyes.

 

Legolas' skin had a pallor that made him seem almost ghost-white...the wound was putrid and festering. But it could easily be cleaned and purged, thought Elladan. If that was all he could start that now. Indeed, Beren had already begin to sterilse the fine steel scalpel he would use to lance and scrape the wound clean...and then he narrowed his eyes again. Looking again with more than his eyes, he let cool blue energy suffuse the air, and he forced it through his hands so his fingers tingled.

 

He stroked his hand lightly over Legolas' skin...

 

...and pulled his hand back quickly as if he were burned. Something black and threadlike seemed to skitter over his fingertips, like spiders. He slapped at his own hands quickly and stared. 'Do not touch him,' he warned, putting out his hand to hold Beren back behind himself.

 

'What is it?' Gimli pushed forwards, alarmed. Elladan held up a warning hand and the Dwarf stilled.

 

Elladan leaned closer but without touching Legolas' skin. He half-closed his eyes and looked beneath the surface, searched for the green-gold light that was Legolas...but there was instead a strange darkness. With his healing sight he could see a black cocoon suffocated the green-gold light. It was a venomous darkness, unlike anything he had encountered. No simple poison. Some sorcery was at work here.

 

Elladan frowned and closed his eyes. He reached out again, more tentatively to the black swathe...black threads skittered onto his own hand where he touched it and again, in horror he pulled back, sent a pulse of healing force and drove the threads off, swept them from his skin in horror. They receded back to Legolas and crouched there, as if waiting, almost conscious.

 

Elladan blinked slowly, letting himself drift and he felt his mouth dry, licked his lips. Beren had become used to this and quickly pushed water towards him. Elladan drank and the cold liquid brought him back to his physical self.

 

The Elf was leaning back on the stool against Gimli as if he thought he might fall otherwise. And Elladan almost gasped. He could see clearly now, if others could not, that Legolas' skin had become white...like veined marble. Fine drawn lines skittered beneath, tracing the pattern of veins and he knew without any doubt, this was beyond him. Remembering how the black threads had seemed to crawl up his own hand when he touched him, Elladan recoiled a little and then he caught the look in Legolas' eyes.

 

He knew.

 

Elladan stared into his eyes, the long green eyes that sparkled with mischief and teased were dull now, half lidded with pain.

 

'How came you by this?' Legolas lifted an eyebrow wryly and Elladan noticed how he held himself, how he did not touch anyone where skin might touch skin, and turned the fabric of his tunic towards anyone if a hand strayed near him. 'I will make you comfortable,' he said, wondering if Legolas knew that was all he could do. He frowned. 'Is it only you that was wounded so?' he asked Legolas. 'I have not seen another.'

 

Legolas sighed. 'An Uruk. It said it had something special for me...it had been looking for me, I think...' He paused as if looking inward and thinking. 'It is dead now.'

 

'Why would it want you alone?' Gimli leaned over him and Legolas shrank away, putting his naked hand inside his sleeve so Gimli would not touch him and Elladan knew then he had seen the way the threads crept onto others as well. 'Why did it not simply kill you? What does it want that it had to keep you alive? At least for now? How long has it been? Hours?' The Dwarf shook his head in despair.

 

Legolas suddenly met Elladan's gaze. A look flickered in his eyes and Elladan frowned, remembering an image of flames licking over a naked torso, gleaming with sweat, and the darkness hid all...

 

'Unless it was the Nazgul wanted you,' Gimli continued unaware. 'They have much to hate you for...'

 

Legolas looked panicked. He tried to pull away but Elladan leaned forward, hand lifted. 'Peace.' He let his blue calm flood from him, spread it like silk upon the close air of the small space and slowly Legolas leaned back once more against the Dwarf. He kept his eyes mistrustfully on Elladan's face but slowly the fear left him. It was fear, Elladan recognised. Not anger. Fear. And he wondered why those disturbing images had struck him then; darkness, a glint of iron, a chain, a fire that cast its hungry light upon naked flesh...a hand drifting over pale skin, stroking the blood across already painted flesh. A ring upon that hand with a dark jewel flashing in the torchlight.

 

There was a sudden flurry and the tent flap was lifted. A Man stood in the doorway, his face etched with relief. 'My lords!' he exclaimed. 'I am glad I have found you. The King sends his greeting. He asks that you attend him when you are able'

 

'King?' Gimli interrupted, frowning and shuffled Legolas upright. 'Oh! You mean Aragorn. Yes, yes... of course...'

 

'And the Lord Peregrine? He is with you also, my Lord?' the Man asked anxiously, glancing around the tent as if he expected to find Pippin there.

 

A moment of panicked silence.

 

'He is not with Aragorn?' asked Gimli.

 

'No...the King had hoped he was with you, my Lords.'

 

Legolas pushed himself up, white faced and trembling. 'I sent Pippin to stand with you and Aragorn,' he looked at Gimli in fear.'I said that he should hide, cover himself with his cloak and not come out until either you or I or Aragorn called him... Gimli!' He turned in consternation and suddenly winced in pain. 'Gimli...' He pushed aside the Dwarf's hand. 'I have to find him. He could be hurt or...or...'

 

'Too frightened to come out,' Gimli said briskly. 'Yes, I understand. I will search for him but you must swear to me to stay here until you are well. Swear!' He held the Elf in his earth-brown gaze, the warmth of forge and hearth.

 

Legolas gazed fearfully at the Dwarf. 'Yes. Of course! If only you will find him. Take him to Aragorn if need be. Only do not leave him here...Swear it!'

 

Gimli looked at him oddly. 'Of course I will not.'

 

'No. Do not leave him here in this forsaken place alone.' His fever-bright eyes were wild and his white face shone with sweat.

 

Elladan saw the truth then. Legolas knew the black threads had wound about him so tightly now, that he was struggling even to stay conscious. And he was frightened. It was not only Pippin he pleaded for.

 

Gimli reached up with infinite gentleness and went to place his warm, square hand on Legolas' cheek, but as he tried to draw the frightened face towards him, Legolas pulled away quickly. Gimli paused, and let his hand drop to his side. 'We swore to each other, Legolas. You and I,' Gimli said sadly, and Elladan could see he was hurt that Legolas had pulled back.'I will not fail Pippin. And I will not fail you. I will not leave you here. Elladan knows what to do and will purge you of this...this thing.'

 

Legolas looked at him and bowed his head. 'Yes. I know. Forgive me...For a moment I...was overcome. But I am calm now.' He smiled. 'Go now. Please. Find him. I swear I will wait for you here.'

 

Gimli nodded and patted his arm. 'Take good care of him, please Elrodan whichever you are. I would hate to deliver bad news to his father.' The words were brusque but the fear in the Dwarf's eyes as he left was not.

 

'My lord,' the King's messenger touched Elladan's arm and spoke quietly. He cast a worried look at Legolas but Elladan knew none other would see how sick the Elf was. 'The King asks for you...He asks that you leave whatever you are doing and come to the Periannath. They are in a deep sleep and will not awaken.'

 

Elladan threw a look at Legolas and then looked away. 'I cannot just abandon those I tend here,' he whispered angrily. 'The King will not expect it! I will come when I can...' But he did not know what the poison was, and he did not know how to vanquish the black threads or stop their spread.

 

He instructed Beren to bring poppy-juice distilled so it drugged the Elf insensible. When Legolas' feverish eyes closed and he looked at least more peaceful, Elladan left, troubled and guilty for there was no more he could do. And in truth, he did not believe that either Aragorn or Gandalf would know more than he, but he sought them anyway. At the least, if it came to it, they might ease Legolas' way...

 

00o0o0o0o

 

It was strange, this dizziness and clarity that ebbed and flowed. Sometimes everything seemed to be distant and hazed. But the Song sparkled in its intensity and he saw everything as if through coloured glass and shapes and light instead of...things. And then, this rolled back like mist and he saw Gimli and Elladan and the boy with astounding clarity and everything seemed sharp and hard and real.

 

They thought Legolas did not hear, but he was an Elf, and a scout in the forest, messenger and captain. Of course he heard. But then the dark threads wrapped around him again, and it became muffled, blurred, seen through coloured glass again... Slowly he was cocooned, muzzled. And he became unclear what these folk were or who or what he was himself...

 

Legolas caught himself staring down at his own hands where the skin was pale, thin black spider webs of veins running through his body, carrying the venom to his heart and his head. He knew it was already there for he felt his heart pounding like he had run a great distance, fought a battle, and his head was light as air, spun lightly away into the darkness in the sky. The darkness clung to the sky...how was that possible? It clung to the mountains...wrapped itself around him like a cocoon, a web...spider webs scattered over his skin. Sticky and coiling...he brushed them away but they stuck to his hand and when he looked down he thought the webs had stuck so hard they had sunk into his skin... No. That was the venom.

 

He wanted to speak but his tongue felt thick and dry in his mouth, stuck. His throat felt dry and stuck too.

 

And the dark seemed to lift and his head cleared suddenly. Through the open tent, he could see the sky was grey with rainclouds and the clean air filled him. It must be wearing off, he thought and looked at his hands again. But they were still marble, white pale and black threads...

 

He tuned himself to the Song. The great chords and notes had slowed, like a great river. Waves swelled and fell slowly and the sound of gulls pierced the air, wheeling on the breeze that drew the scent of salt, like a skein of blue silk on the wind, and he closed his eyes.

 

He dreamed that there was a rush of gold and wind. A shining light in the sky, pouring down, closer, like a star and the Song rushed up to meet him. Olórin. And huddled against him, two small figures.

 

In his dream, he pushed himself to his feet, mouth open, heart bursting. Frodo. Sam. The small figures shifted slightly and one moaned. Alive. They were alive! He wanted to run up the hillside to where the eagles had brought them, to where Aragorn gently lifted them down, to where Gandalf leaned over them in tender distress. He wanted to shout, and sing and pray. But all he could do was sink down onto the stony ground and weep.

 

He bowed his head and stared at his frayed sleeve. He realised that Elladan had gone and the venom had seized hold of him while he frittered away his time.

 

...but you are sick. A voice said. He nodded. 'I am,' he said.

 

...you are worse than sick, the voice said. You are dying.

 

Am I?...Yes. He knew that too. The venom skittered its way through his body and wrapped itself about his limbs, his muscles, his heart. Cocooned him. He knew of two venoms, and this was indeed spider venom. One paralysed the victim, so the spider cocooned them and stored them, for they liked to eat their prey alive. They also sprayed another venom on their victims so their innards became liquid and the spider would suck the liquid from the carcass...It was an unpleasant way to die, he thought and wondered if there were indeed Halls of Waiting before one was reborn in Aman? He thought of Avari tales he had grown up with and felt a tremor of fear...what if that were not true? What if the venom would cut his feä like the Morgul blade and he were unhoused? What if the Nazgûl were not destroyed with the Ring?

 

A darkness fell over him then and he looked up. A shadow loomed above him, seemed huge, reached out for him. He felt it wrap a dark power around him and he swooned.

 

000ooo0o0oo

 

Elrohir fought hard amongst the Men who followed him, and it felt like it always had; fighting amongst Men, hunting Orc and Uruk. But there were few left. Those not swallowed by the Void had fled into the mountains that ringed Mordor, and now all that remained to stand against them were handfuls of Haradrim. Valiant Men of the South and East, their long eyes darkened with kohl and veiled against the dust. They fought for their Dark God who was vanquished, yet still they fought. Beside him his band of Men harried and chased the survivors until they were either slain or surrendered.

 

Then there was mercy. Not from Elrohir. He could not give it...he wanted to kill them all...It was Baelderon who rode with him and restrained him. The Men knew his will though he could barely speak. The company had driven the enemy hard across the plains, hunting survivors, killing any Orcs, capturing Men who surrendered. Only one troop had escaped. One captain, one commander had led his Men swiftly over the Mountains to the North and he alone, Elrohir did not challenge or pursue*.

 

Now he was alone as twilight and then darkness crept over the abandoned land. It was empty. Sauron had gone. The Ring had gone. He felt a hollow emptiness where the Power had been...Something else nagged him quietly. It felt like something was fading that he had grown used to, been hardly aware of. He closed his eyes and turned inwards. He felt Elladan nearby, his cool blue like moonlight faded now and drawn, at the edge of exhaustion. Elrohir opened his eyes, seeing the growing darkness was just that, night.

 

He found himself needing warmth, needing the beat of blood, the pulse of a heart, warmth of another's breath on his cold skin...for there was only this quiet absence. He felt colder than he had ever been, like the Helcaraxë must have been, those great creaking glaciers cracking and shifting with the cold, grey sea beneath.

 

He rose, his cloak folding about him. His hand rested on dark Aícanaro. The sword slept now, sated with blood, gorged and full. There was within him still, that darkness, but it was different now...and he knew what he needed to slake it. He needed light to banish it, needed to feel life, to smell the clean air and frost coming down from the Mountains. The shadows were slowly eased back, crouching now at the edges of his crimson light. Slowly he opened his eyes and blinked as though he had been asleep for a long time... He felt the last flicker of darkness at the edges fade and withdraw. They were gone. Gone. He breathed in and the air was cold.

 

He needed warmth. He needed colour. Green-gold threads winding amongst his own black and silver and crimson. Legolas. He strode between the rocks and boulders that had been thrown by the trembling, shuddering earth and made his way towards the campfires that dotted the night. Even with Sauron gone, it was a haunted land and Men huddled close to each other, gathered around the fires, standing rather than sleeping.

 

He knew where Elladan was. He could almost see the drift of colour on the night, like blue silk. He followed it to a tent and the glow from within showed him figures bunched over a bed. Aragorn was there also. Elrohir breathed the cold night air as he nodded to the guards who stood aside to admit him.

 

Within, the air was sweet with athelas and camomile, and the simple tent was flooded with a rich light, like pure starlight. It lit the face of his beloved, gentle brother, and the two small figures lying as if dead, their faces thinner and more pinched than any Hobbits should be. A grey-ish pallor to their skin showed their famished state and their breathing was shallow and strained. This, he thought, was Frodo Baggins and Sam Gamgee. He had only glimpsed them in Imladris but he knew them both. They were so changed.

 

The light came from a small vial and he knew this was Galadriel's gift. It lay on the pillows between the Hobbits and cast its diamond-brightness onto the faces of those gathered. Beside them was Gandalf, head bowed and he held Frodo's hand lightly. In the light of the Silmaril, Eärendil's star, Elrohir saw Olórin within, thinly hidden beneath the old man's skin. Aragorn too sat with them, with Sam and his face was still, noble, like the old Kings of the Argonnath. He glanced up at Elrohir briefly and there was such loss in his grey eyes that Elrohir felt like he was an intruder on the sanctuary, and stepped outside again.

 

It seemed then that the heavy clouds rolled back. The stars were hard and bright in a velvet darkness. He looked up and sent a prayer into the night. And if the Hobbits were not brought back by Eärendil's light, his grandson was. Elrohir breathed out and the last vestiges of shadow went with the frost of his breath. It curled in the cold night air and dissipated. The scent of athelas had soothed him and he turned to search for one he loved, to fulfill his promise to Legolas.

 

The memory caressed him. He let his head fall back slightly so he looked open-eyed into the night sky, felt a burgeoning of desire; he had cupped the back of Legolas' head and brought him close, stared for a moment into those wide green-gold eyes and pulled Legolas towards him, pressing his own mouth against Legolas', pushing between his lips as the Elf gasped and filling his mouth with Elrohir's own tongue. Wishing there was nothing between them. It was fierce, brief, passionate. He had heard eagles soar above the snow. This, this is what love is, he had thought. Pure. The Song amplified.

 

'I will find you,' he had said, pulling back and gazing into the green-gold eyes that were full of wonder. 'When this is done, I will find you.' He had pushed a loose hair back from Legolas' beautiful, flushed face.

 

...And now he would find him as he had promised. He shrugged the sable cloak back over his shoulder and hitched his sword-belt over his lean hips. He looked back up the hillside and wondered where to find Legolas, unwilling to open himself up even on the edge of these dark and shadowed lands, even with the Enemy vanquished. It was still too soon.

 

'My Lord,' a boy ran panting up to him, his face anxious. 'You must come! He has worsened and I do not know what to do!'

 

Elrohir frowned, but the boy had already run ahead and ducked into one of the tents. He followed quickly. He was used to being mistaken for Elladan and this was the Healing quarter. Someone needed him.

 

'Quickly my lord!' the boy shouted from within and Elrohir shoved aside the tent flap and followed the boy inside. Within he found Legolas.

 

No warm light of Eärendil suffused this tented ward, nor watchful hush. A dying lamp cast a cold half-light over Legolas. His chest heaved and his breath was loud, rasping and his open eyes stared glassily upwards. Pale gold strands of hair clung damply to his skin, and Elrohir saw with horror that the gold and emerald swirls and abstracts painted on his skin were withered, faded and threaded with black veins. Even as he stared in horror, Legolas gave a last heave of his lungs, arched upwards, mouth open in a horrible parody of ecstasy, and the breath left him slowly...He did not breath again.

 

Elrohir leaped to his side and pushed his fingers against Legolas' throat; he felt the struggle and quiver of one last pulse and then nothing. In panic, he raised his fist, brought it down hard on the motionless sternum**. Crying aloud, the boy pulled at him but Elrohir shoved him aside, sent him crashing to the ground where he sprawled, wailing and shouting for help.

 

Elrohir ignored everything and thumped Legolas again. Hard. And then once more. He dropped his mouth over Legolas', pinching his nose and pulling him upwards, he forced breath into those starving, suffocated lungs. Breathed for him, sent a fire of energy storming into the lifeless body. Commanded him.

 

I will not let you go! he thought and chased the fleeing life down, dragged it to a stop...and then saw the cocoon of black writhing web that suffocated him, crawled over his green-gold light and drowned him in darkness.

 

'Get yourself up!' he shouted at the weeping boy. 'Go into the Periannath's tent. Tell the King, I musthave the light of Eärendil!'

 

The boy scrambled to his feet and tried to scuffle away for Elrohir knew he looked a madman. Reaching over, he grabbed the boy, pulled him tightly to his chest. He thrust his face close to the boy, glared into his terrified eyes and snarled, 'If you do not do this, trust me. I will find you! And then I will eat your heart! Go! Fetch me what I need.' He shoved the boy through the tent flap and threw himself towards Legolas, he tore at his vambraces, cast them to the floor, pulled at his harness and breastplate until he was free of them and stood only in his thin linen shirt and breeches.

 

Breathed... breathed...hands on his chest...breathed and more desperately this time for there was no pulse. He sent his crimson fire down into the cocoon driving the black threads skittering onto his own hands, his face, he felt them crawling into him and he did not care. Come then, he said and opened himself, pulled the linen shirt over his head and bundled it up, threw it from him and tenderly, lovingly, covered Legolas with his nakedness. There was almost a hiss from the dark web beneath Legolas' skin.

 

There was noise and a rush of feet, shouting outside. He lifted his head. 'Let him pass!' he bellowed. 'Aragorn!'

 

He felt the sudden weight of a black web draw itself over him, heave itself from the green-gold light and wrestle with his own fire. You will not have him. Have me instead.

 

There was a tremble beneath his fingers. A gasp at his ear, where he breathed and breathed and suddenly a cough. Quickly he turned Legolas on his side and the Elf retched violently. Black liquid poured from his mouth, his nose and Elrohir watched the thread skitter over his own hands, felt them tighten round his throat.

 

Come. He spread his hands over the Elf's pale, cold chest, over his face, stroked him, stroked his pale gold hair, his cheekbones, his straight nose and dark brows, let his hands run lovingly over the throat and chest and he brushed the swirling, withered dragon back to colour and life. The black threads fell away from the Woodelf and crawled like insects onto Elrohir's hands, his arms, so they were blackened and bound. The black threads sank into his skin, his flesh. He felt the burning of it clamber over his chest and allowed it. Legolas lay marble white and cold, but he breathed now. The swirls and painted skin threaded more lightly now with black veins...

 

Come, he invited and he pressed his skin against Legolas and felt the desire flare like wildfire. Come, he seduced the black web, called to it, cooled himself. I will give you myself if you leave him. Elrohir felt the nipples pebble beneath his hands and he wanted to lick and suck them to hardness, to let his tongue trail down the hard belly and he felt desire like a furnace in his loins. He was hard and needy.

 

Legolas lay half-naked and Elrohir covered him, pressed against him and kissed him, breathed into him all his warmth and fire so he was close, close enough for the dark web to skitter into him and wrap itself about his heart.

 

There was a commotion at the entrance to the tent but he paid it no heed. He knew he was suddenly thrown with elven strength to the ground, away from Legolas and that Elladan stood over him, furious, a blue tempest swirling around him. He knew there were words but he could not distinguish them- he was slowly wrapped in black threads that skittered and wove about him...the web cocooned him...and he felt himself falling, his heart enveloped and his lungs furred with the black web

 

TBC

 

0000ooo0o0o0o

 

Nearly at the end now folks.

 

** only trained medical professionals should ever attempt this. Elrohir knows exactly what he is doing.

 

Spiced Wine's spin-off story is about Elrohir and Sauron's nasty plans. This is a reference to that story. The phrase Dark God is also hers. A wonderful writer.

 

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	44. Chapter 44

Author's Chapter Notes:

Beta: The truly exceptional Anarithilen. More co-writer than beta.

 

Good soundtrack for this would be The Last of the Mohicans...gives you a flavour of what to expect!

 

Thanks to Spiced Wine, peamaps, superpa, ebbingnight, Alpha, Lisse, L8, for your lovely and encouraging reviews. Almost there now- one left I think.

 

 

\-----------------------------------------

 

Chapter 43: Distant Shores 

 

 

Stifling a yawn, the King Returned clenched his fists to keep himself alert and awake. He had done all he could for the moment and now resigned himself to watch. 

 

The light of Eärendil shone an otherworldly light upon Gandalf where he knelt, leaning towards Frodo and cradling the Hobbit’s injured hand gently between his. Aragorn bowed his head, intensely moved by this scene of tenderness.

 

Peace settled upon him and he closed his eyes. He remembered how he had found the exquisite glass vial, like a thin globe of starlight, tucked away in Sam’s jacket. He had pulled it out, astonished that the thin glass had not somehow broken during their long journey. Instead the starlight seemed to kindle and shine upon the famished Hobbits. 

 

His head sank against his chest....

 

....He started. Had he fallen asleep? Surely he could stay watch with Gandalf over Sam and Frodo? He felt a traitor, abandoning them merely to sleep when the suffering was plain on their drawn and pinched faces. Bilbo had had a similar look when he arrived for his final rest in Imladris; Aragorn recalled Bilbo saying he felt...what was it he had said? Stretched? Yes, stretched. Looking now at Frodo, he thought how apt the word.

 

‘It is done. Now he comes back to us.’

 

The words were spoken so quietly that Aragorn thought that first he had fallen asleep again and dreamed it. But the Wizard shifted slightly and beneath the deep sorrow and weariness that lay upon him, it seemed the veil between the worlds thinned and Aragorn glimpsed the Wizard as he was on the Other Side. 

 

‘Sam...’ It was a whisper but it was a beloved voice and Aragorn looked round to see that Frodo’s head had turned slightly towards Sam, his brown eyes half open and gazing at the little gardener. 

 

‘Frodo!’ Aragorn could hardly believe the Hobbit was awake but Frodo blinked slowly, sleepily, and a small smile lit his face as he caught sight of his dear friends. He closed his eyes once more and settled deeper into sleep.

 

Aragorn smiled in return, feeling a swell of pride then, and unutterable joy. All his fatigue and weariness suddenly washed away and he felt like Arda had lifted her head and stretched in the Spring light; Sauron was gone. Truly. His spirit had been plunged into the Void amongst the other howling evils that had been sucked into the crevices that had opened up in the earth. Two small Hobbits had accomplished this. Not great heroes amongst Men or Elves. Just two Hobbits. Suddenly he felt the immensity of the deed, and that for himself, his heart’s desire was suddenly so close he could scarce believe it. Arwen. His Evenstar. His hand crept to caress the gem that nestled against his throat and he thought of her warmth against him, her softness that was so different from his own hard, lean body. And he suddenly wanted her, wanted her in his arms, pressing his mouth against hers, pulling her body against him...

 

He shook himself: this would do no good. He needed to distract himself. Fresh air. That was what he needed. Rising stiffly to his feet, he clutched at the tent pole for support for his limbs were stiff now after fighting for hours and hours, and then crouched uncomfortably in this tent trying to pour his healing into the Hobbits. Gandalf glanced Aragorn’s way briefly, but merely frowned slightly and leaned forwards closer to Frodo once more, as if listening to something.

 

Suddenly there was the sound of voices outside. Gimli’s voice raised and angry and then a lower voice answering. Aragorn rolled his shoulders stiffly and held out his hand to Gandalf, whose frown deepened irritably, indicating he would see what the commotion was about. Aragorn pulled aside the tent flap, hoping to find that Gimli had found Pippin and that Legolas would be with him. He almost ran into Gimli. Elladan was close on his heels and the two were arguing loudly.

 

‘I did not think you would simply abandon him!’ the Dwarf was exclaiming and he was struggling into the tent with something heavy in his arms. Aragorn’s heart leapt into his mouth and at first he thought it must be Legolas. But it was too small...and then he saw the mop of unruly curls and the pale, wan face. A bruise was on Pippin’s cheek and blood streaked down his face. He could not stop a cry when he saw Pippin so still and pale.

 

‘I have not abandoned him,’ Elladan cried hotly, following Gimli into the tent. ‘I seek a cure, for what ails him is beyond me.’

 

‘Mind yourselves!’ Gandalf rapped out crossly and glared at them. He jerked his head towards Frodo and Sam meaningfully and Gimli instantly softened. Elladan looked ashamed. ‘Pass that Hobbit to Aragorn before you drop him,’ the Wizard barked.

 

Aragorn reached out and took Pippin from Gimli. Anxiously he stroked the hair back from Pippin’s pale face and tutted. There was a nasty cut on his forehead and some bruising. He shot a quick look at Elladan, wondering what his brother and Gimli had been arguing about; Pippin’s wound looked awful but was not deep. Had Elladan left Pippin alone earlier? Was that why Gimli accused him of abandoning him? It was unlike Elladan to leave a patient who needed care. He would only do that in the direst need. Aragorn quickly laid Pippin down and leaned over him. Elladan had also spoken of finding a cure, he thought as he lifted Pippin’s eyelids quickly and peered into his eyes. Perhaps there was more to this wound than first appeared, he thought.

 

‘I found him crushed beneath a troll,’ Gimli murmured and he too bent over the Hobbit with a solicitous, anxious air.

 

Aragorn lifted the edge of the mail shirt the Hobbit wore and felt beneath it. ‘How badly is he hurt?’ he asked Elladan.

 

Elladan looked surprised. ‘Not very. It is just that contusion I believe.’

 

Aragorn frowned and looked down at Pippin. ‘What are you two arguing about if it’s not Pippin?’

 

‘Not what, who!’ growled the Dwarf emphatically, and then without answering the question, he turned back to Elladan and said accusingly, ‘And what cure do you seek? If what ails him is beyond you, you should not have left him!’ 

 

‘That is why I have left him, so I can seek better counsel!’ Elladan answered back hotly.

 

Aragorn frowned. Whoever or whatever they were arguing about, right now it was Pippin who lay unconscious before him and that was who demanded his attention. He glanced up expecting to see Legolas’ shadow at the entrance, but he was not there. A nagging feeling tugged at him lightly but he bent his head to focus on Pippin and pulled a lamp closer to see the wound on Pippin’s head. It was crusted and bloody. ‘Hand me that swab please, Gimli.’

 

The Dwarf looked about him for a moment and then alighted upon a roll of bandages and swabs. ‘I trust you have not left him completely alone. Is that brother of yours with him?’ Gimli demanded angrily as he thrust the swabs at Aragorn, and stood ready with rolls of bandages should the Man need those too.

 

Aragorn half-listened, dipping the cloth in the water and wiping away the dried blood and dirt from Pippin’s head. He stilled himself and let his focus sink down, through his fingers, gently probing, sensing the damage beneath the skin; he found a slight softness of tissue around one ear but nothing serious. He sighed in relief and straightened up. ‘As you said, Elladan, there is a small wound, hardly worth dressing. It looks much worse than it is. He will awaken soon.’

 

But Gimli and Elladan were hardly listening, so intent on their own argument were they. ‘What do you mean? He is in no danger from Elrohir if that is what you dare to imply!’ Elladan glared at Gimli. 

 

Aragorn glanced up at each of them assessing Gimli’s outrage, Elladan’s concern. He frowned, seeing Gandalf’s mounting irritation as their voices inevitably rose and they were no longer whispering. He looked about again for Legolas, for he would calm Gimli and take him off somewhere. 

 

Pippin groaned quietly. ‘Pass me the small pot with violet ointment.’ Aragorn took the pot from Elladan and took a generous fingerful and smeared it liberally over the cut on the Hobbit’s forehead. 

 

‘You have left him alone and in pain and distress whilst you wander about camp doing I don’t know what!’ Gimli hissed at Elladan but he held out a roll of linen to Aragorn. He switched his ire towards Aragorn. ‘He was caught by an Uruk whilst watching your back,’ Gimli said suddenly, accusing Aragorn. Aragorn stared, realising now that the reason Legolas was not there was because it was about Legolas they argued. 

 

‘Legolas is injured?’ he asked anxiously. 

 

Gimli stared at him furiously. ‘You didn’t even check on him? After he took a blow meant for you?’ 

 

Aragorn winced at the contempt in Gimli’s voice. ‘Where is he now?’ he asked instead of answering. He should have checked, he berated himself inwardly. He should have seen what happened. Quickly he tied the linen bandage about Pippin’s head, thinking that it would at least keep the wound clean, for Pippin did not need it otherwise. ‘I will go to him now.’

 

Gimli shook his head slowly and looked away, refusing to meet Aragorn’s anxious eyes. 

 

‘I left him with my orderly,’ Elladan told Aragorn and flung out a hand, gesturing towards the tent entrance. Then he turned in desperation to Gandalf. ‘But I only left him to beg you, Gandalf, to come to him!’ Gandalf lifted his head then and looked at Elladan shrewdly. ‘I can see that Aragorn has no need of me here,’ Elladan said gesturing to Frodo and Sam. ‘I can see they need but rest and their spirits to be guarded.’ He crouched down next to Gandalf then and looked up at the Wizard. ‘Please spare some time from them, Gandalf! Legolas has great need of you!’

 

‘Tell me what you fear, Elrondion.’ The Wizard spoke now and suddenly the tension thickened.

 

‘He has been poisoned.’

 

‘Poisoned? Surely you know how to deal with poison?’ Gandalf asked but in his voice there was sudden attention and concern. He lifted his chin then and Aragorn was reminded of a hound scenting the air, as if he knew somehow that Sauron’s hand reached for them even now.

 

‘This poison is like nothing I have seen before.’ Elladan looked earnestly from one to the other now. ‘There are black threads beneath his skin...’

 

‘Threads? I never saw any threads,’ Gimli muttered darkly. 

 

‘You would not have seen them,’ Elladan told him quietly, urgently. ‘It is some spider venom that entered through the wound on his arm but it has been changed somehow. Ensorcelled.’ He rose to his feet then and took a step restlessly towards the tent entrance. ‘Gandalf, I need you to come with me. Please. I tried to heal him...but when I touched him...’ He shuddered. ‘The threads crawled onto me.’

 

Gandalf too had risen to his feet as Elladan spoke, and his blue eyes narrowed as if he sought to pierce the canvas and see into the wide night. ‘Sauron is still at work I see,’ he muttered as if cursing. ‘Even though he has gone into the Void and beyond the bounds of Arda, he toys with us still.’ 

 

He reached down towards Frodo briefly and Aragorn thought first he stroked Frodo’s brow but the light dimmed suddenly and he realised that Gandalf had covered the phial and was lifting it from Frodo’s pillow. The Wizard whispered something as he touched the Hobbit’s cheek and Frodo shifted slightly, seeming to sink deeper into sleep. But it was a good sleep for his cheeks were slightly flushed and a smile was upon his lips.

 

Gandalf straightened and looked again out into the night. ‘Fool of an Elf!’ he said to no one in particular. ‘Come Aragorn,’ he commanded. Elladan had already thrust the tent flap open and pushed his way outside. 

 

The scents of the camp outside drifted through the open tent flap as Gandalf followed Elladan; horses, campfires and the freshness of the air felt renewing after being inside for so long. Aragorn had long ago learned to trust Gandalf so he started towards the tent entrance when he realised that Gimli followed. He turned and met the earth brown eyes that were full of fear. He put his hand on the Dwarf’s shoulder and held him gently.

 

‘Gimli, I need you to stay here, with Frodo and Sam and Pippin.’

 

‘No, I am coming with you. I need to make sure that tree-hugger knows what trouble he has caused me.’ Gimli looked up then and despite his stern words, his eyes were full of love and fear. 

 

Aragorn paused and then he looked Gimli firmly in the eye and said slowly, ‘Someone has to be with the Hobbits when they awake. Would you have me stay instead of attending Legolas?’ Aragorn reached out and clasped the Dwarf’s shoulder. ‘You know he will be well tended.’

 

‘No, I...’

 

‘Then you would have Frodo or Sam awake to a stranger? You looked for Pippin a long time. You would relinquish his care now to someone who knows him not?’

 

‘No...’ Aragorn watched as Gimli bowed his head in defeat, for it was a defeat. He could see the Dwarf’s steady, faithful heart falter and gradually accept it had to be so. 

 

Aragorn looked down and said quietly for none but Gimli’s ears, ‘You think I have wronged Legolas by bringing him to the shores of the Anduin. By not checking if he had been hurt when he took a blow meant for me perhaps?’ Gimli did not look up, for he knew it was true. ‘Then let me make amends at least and heal him. And you would be doing me a great service in turn, for I trust no one but you to guard Frodo.’

 

‘And I trust no one but you to heal Legolas,’ Gimli said quietly then. ‘But you will not let him go?’

 

‘No Gimli. I will not let him go.’

 

‘I swore not to leave him here. Not in Mordor.’

 

‘And we will not.’ Aragorn squeezed the strong shoulder, felt the hard muscle beneath the Dwarf’s leather tunic. His strong heart pulsed and Aragorn met his earth-brown gaze steadily. ‘Let me help him. I will bring him back.’

 

Gimli nodded then and Aragorn followed Gandalf out into the night.

 

00o0o0o

 

It was dark outside, and cold. The rain was nothing more now than a thin drizzle that misted his face, his hair. He welcomed it, feeling briefly refreshed. 

 

Raised voices nearby made him look round and he saw two Tower Guards with a smaller figure, a boy. The boy was angry, protesting loudly and one of the guards took his arm to propel him away

 

Aragorn ignored the scuffle, turned to follow the glimmer of white robes in the darkness where Gandalf strode ahead between the tents. He could not see Elladan.

 

‘Your majesty?’ The guards glanced at one another anxiously, nervously. ‘This boy says he has been sent to find you...’ one began, nodding towards the pale flaxen-haired lad who stared up at him defiantly. 

 

Aragorn silenced the guards with a look. ‘I have not the time now,’ he said, keeping one eye on Gandalf. 

 

At that moment, a cry came from one of the healing tents nearby. A bellow of fury and a strange resonance hit Aragorn, more than a simple voiced cry but a call to him. He heard it in his soul. ‘Aragorn! Let him pass!’

 

Elrohir. 

 

Aragorn gave the boy one look, and realising, pulled him forward. ‘Show me!’ 

 

Gandalf too had heard the cry, and glancing back to see if Aragorn followed, ducked into a tent. Aragorn ran after him. The boy was quicker and ran ahead, dodging beneath the flap that was secured open by some red string. 

 

Within were two voices raised in anger, speaking Sindarin. Aragorn heard them as he shoved aside the tent flap and dipped his head, entering.

 

‘What in Eru’s name have you done!’ Elladan’s voice cried. 

 

A murmured response that he could not discern was Elrohir’s deep, rich voice.

 

Gandalf stood in the way and at first, Aragorn could not see. There was a fragrance of herbs overlying the putrefaction beneath, and the copper smell of blood.

 

Then Gandalf moved forwards and Aragorn saw Elladan bending over Elrohir who knelt beside a narrow bed, one arm slung uncomfortably over the bed as if he protected the sleeper beneath his arm. Elrohir’s face was turned away as if he wished to hide. 

 

‘Can I not leave you for a moment?’ Elladan tenderly swept Elrohir’s long black hair away from his face, but Elrohir shrugged him away and the light from an oil lamp gleamed on his naked torso. He seemed lessened somehow. Bundled up in a corner was his linen shirt and his rich sable cloak.

 

Aragorn stared, uncomprehending and then he glanced down at the narrow bed where Elrohir had been leaning. A fall of golden hair swirled confusingly and Aragorn started, for it was Legolas lying there, skin unnaturally white and his veins seeming raw and angry, swollen. Gandalf moved to kneel next to him, leaning on his staff and looking intently at the Elf. 

 

‘Fool of an Elf!‘ Gandalf repeated his earlier curse, exasperated. And reaching out, the Wizard touched Legolas lightly on the forehead.

 

‘Mithrandir, do not touch him!’ Elladan pulled the Wizard’s arm back but Gandalf shook him off irritably and turned his piercing blue eyes upon Legolas. 

 

‘Look!’ Elladan insisted and dragged at Gandalf’s arm forcing him to look. The Wizard narrowed his eyes slightly and then took a startled breath and leaned back. ‘See!’ Elladan cried brokenly. 

 

‘Elladan, what is going on?’ Aragorn touched his brother lightly and Elladan turned to him. 

 

‘Aragorn...See to Legolas, I cannot leave Elrohir.’ He scooped up Elrohir’s cloak and swept it around his brother’s naked shoulders.

 

Aragorn felt the world close around those two as it so often did. Outside, the rain pattered gently on the canvas again and on the parched earth of Mordor, and the soft hubbub of the camp edged slowly back. 

 

Aragorn ran his hands over his head and watched for a moment, confused. Then he took the three steps that brought him to Legolas’ side, and leaned over the unconscious Elf. Only then did it register with Aragorn the Elf’s state. A bloody bandage on his arm was stained black and the veins were red-raw and swollen around the wound. He started reaching out to touch his skin, test his temperature but stopped himself. ‘What do you wish me to do?’

 

‘I do not know! I have done everything I can and now...I do not know what I can do! I dare not even touch them.’ Elladan hid his eyes with one hand then and Aragorn realised then that he was at breaking point. He held his tongue and instead he fell back upon old learned practice from Elrond. Even now, he could almost hear the compassionate voice, the teacher, his mentor, his father. ‘Never stand idly by. What can you do to assist?’

 

He glanced about and saw that there were the familiar blown-glass flagons of crimson uilios and the amber sere-vanda. He thought he could smell their fragrance on the air when he had entered the tent. 

 

Aragorn was aware that Gandalf was leaning forwards again and peering down at the Elf. ‘Yes, I see it,’ he said.

 

Aragorn half closed his eyes as he had been taught and looked where Gandalf looked, searched his friend’s face and torso for the signs of sickness. Legolas was very still. And his skin was white. Whiter than usual. There were shadows beneath his eyes, a purplish tinge to them. With a thin wooden spatula he lifted the bloody and black stained bandage over his arm. The wound had been scraped clean and dressed with a poultice. He sniffed. Charcoal and naithlhoth*. Either Elladan or Elrohir had dressed it then, he decided.

 

‘I see the wound,’ he said, ‘but...’ He stared. A thread of black, like ink beneath the skin, slid sinuously...like a worm.

 

‘Now you see it,’ Elladan said wearily. ‘If you touch him, it will slide onto you. My stupid brother is probably now infected.’ He lifted Elrohir’s hair out from beneath his cloak and eased him back without touching skin to skin, so he was kneeling upright now and leaning back against Elladan.

 

Aragorn looked back at Legolas. A thin sheet covered him and he wore his breeches still as did Elrohir but that was all. Aragorn hesitated, for he was horrified by the sight of a thin black thread writhing beneath Legolas’ skin. 

 

‘There is only one now,’ Elladan looked over from where he held Elrohir against him. ‘They were everywhere before. In his veins. That is why they look so swollen and red. Now there is only one...’ Tenderly, Elladan pulled his brother’s shivering form closer against himself though the thick cloak was between them. ‘Fool,’ he murmured tenderly. ‘You fool. And now what will I do?’

 

Elrohir’s head dipped and his breathing was harsh and rasping. ‘What else could I do?’ Elrohir’s voice was barely a whisper and his breathing was loud. ‘You know not to touch me, Elladan. If you do, it will infect you. It is quick. Already it is around my lungs, I can feel its black threads tighten...’ He gasped and his hands flew to his throat. 

 

Aragorn moved towards Elrohir, his heart stricken but Elladan pressed his hand against Aragorn, holding him back. ‘Stay back. I told you. I do not know how it will affect a Man.’ 

 

‘Help me...up!’ Elrohir grabbed at the poles that kept the tent aloft and dragged himself to half sit. Aragorn reached out instinctively but Elrohir drew back and the sable cloak slipped from his shoulders. Aragorn stared for he saw the black threads writhe and snake over Elrohir’s white skin. Like Legolas, his veins were swollen and red. Elrohir swayed and passed his hand over his clammy skin, the sweat on his forehead gleaming.

 

Elladan pulled the cloak gently back over Elrohir’s shoulders, and wrapped Elrohir lovingly within it. ‘Forgive me for not being here. Again.’ Aragorn saw there were tears on his face. 

 

Elrohir shook his head violently and tried to shove himself free from Elladan’s close embrace. ‘Do not touch me, Elladan. The only thing that will succour me...You, and he...must survive. If I do not...but I think I can ...fight...’ He retched. Horribly. Clutching his belly, he leaned over, and retched again. A thin trickle of black liquid streamed from the corner of his mouth and he blinked slowly...when he looked up again at Elladan his eyes were filled with blackness and he blinked again and this time, he reached out himself, groping towards the light that shone low from the oil lamp. 

 

‘I cannot see.’

 

Aragorn gasped and moved forwards instinctively but he was pushed back by Gandalf, who slowly opened his hand. A brilliance crept out from the edges of Gandalf’s robes and Elrohir turned his face towards it for it was the light of Eärendil. Its diamond light fractured and splintered into something unearthly, strange, and Aragorn thought it like starlight but somehow greater, somehow more beautiful, more ancient, more impossible. He felt tears prick his eyes and overwhelming nostalgia swept over him, flooding him with a longing for when he was young and had just fallen in love with Arwen, before he really understood how impossible was their love. And he was cradled in the bosom of his foster family. 

 

Elrohir reached out blindly and Elladan wrapped him in the sable cloak, pulled him close.

 

‘Aragorn,’ Gandalf said slowly as if coming out of a dream. ‘You will assist me with Legolas. He is lost and you must call him back as you did Faramir while I extract that poison from him. Quickly now.’ He turned then to Elladan and his eyes were grave. ‘For you and I need attend to your brother.’ 

 

Aragorn hesitated for a moment, for Legolas was still and quiet and Elrohir’s breath was rasping and hard fought. Should they not fight for Elrohir first? But Gandalf gently nudged Aragorn towards the sleeping Wood-Elf.

 

‘Legolas needs you,’ the Wizard repeated. ‘You can do nothing for Elrohir but you can bring Legolas back. He wanders dark paths.’

 

Aragorn hesitated, but long ago he had learned to trust Gandalf. His gaze lingered on Elrohir, huddled in on himself as if in pain, head bowed as if weighed down by some great horror. Slowly Aragorn dragged his attention back to Legolas. The Woodelf lay still and quiet, skin whiter than Aragorn had ever seen him, and those veins swollen and red were reason enough for concern. In the low lamplight, that thin black thread slid and vanished beneath his skin. Aragorn felt the hairs on his neck rise.

 

‘It is one only and with your help, he can fight that,’ Gandalf said quietly as if he heard Aragorn’s thoughts. ‘Draw it to you so that he can be separated from it. It will not come to me.’ 

 

Aragorn steeled himself for he could not bear the thought of Legolas and his merry heart overwhelmed by such horror. He gently pulled the thin blanket over the Elf’s chest and lay his hand over it, not on the skin for he knew Elladan’s fear. Narrowing his eyes, he looked more deeply, felt deeply...searched for Legolas himself, for the sense of him, for the spirited, mercurial Elf who had fought alongside him and followed him even at the cost of his own heart. But he found his way blocked by a brooding darkness and he thought it like the Black Breath for it had the tinge of malice he associated with the Nazgûl. 

 

Tenderly, with all that love in his breast, Aragorn leaned over Legolas and let himself sink, let his healing and love reach from his heart and flood through him, into his hands and then he laid them upon Legolas’ brow. The black thread skittered beneath the skin and wormed its way towards him. He felt sudden disgust and instinctively began to draw his hands back when a hand reached from beside him and Gandalf smoothed the skin above the thread. A flash of white fire and the thread dissolved, incinerated and Legolas took a deep breath and seemed to settle more deeply.

 

‘Good! And now it is gone from him. Call him back. He wanders and is lost. He swore to follow you,’ Gandalf said softly and then turned his full attention to the other lost soul.

 

Aragorn lay his hands now on Legolas’ brow and let his healing flood him, pour through his hands and his consciousness followed...He sank into that place within himself where the veil between the worlds thinned and dissolved and he could pass beyond the veil and seek his friend.

 

So he called and Legolas turned and followed him back out into the starlight, the wide skies and the earthy smell after rain...

 

Much later, he felt cool water bathe his face and a blue energy wrapped about him. Cool blue light fell upon him and a peace settled. He was exhausted and let himself be half carried back to his own tent where Frodo rested. 

 

He remembered murmuring and Elladan saying, ‘Legolas is safe. You called him back and he awoke just a moment ago. You need to rest. Gandalf is with them.’ He did not hear Elladan’s reply to his second question about Elrohir...but he heard the muffled sob and his heart sank.

 

00oo0o0o0o

 

 

When he awoke, Legolas felt his wounded arm was flaming and pinched with iron tongs. Someone was forcing liquid between his parched lips. He panicked for surely the iron chain was what bit into his arm, and the dark figure above him would soon raise its hand and the lash would tear his flesh from bone. Surely he was being flayed. Was that a knife that cut the silk membrane between his flesh and skin? There was firelight and it flickered over him, snuffling, growling from somewhere over his shoulder. He squinted up at the dark figure above him and moved his head in protest at the pain. 

 

Grey eyes pinned him. A hand pressed against his hot, clammy skin. It hurt. 

 

He tossed his head from side to side. His neck felt stiff and his eyes were swollen and puffy. His arm burned and he cried out. 

 

Then there was a familiar presence that smelt of a smoky herb he had become used to; it reminded him of friendship and stories, and a need for stealth. A voice called to him, gently, and this time, he knew the voice had come to find him to call him back and he turned unresisting, for had he not sworn to follow this Man even unto death.

 

White power soaked into his burning skin.... He opened his lips in a sigh. It was not the Nazgûl. He remembered. And an unearthly light shone from somewhere nearby, something ancient and wonderful. He felt the Song tremble in its loveliness and for a moment, he was overwhelmed by it, drenched by its purity, by the yearning for the light, for the soul that had created it, the brilliance. He basked in the light and listened to the Songs that wound about him. For a while there was a cool blue song of moonlit pools and petals drifting and then it faded away, and there was a familiar song that was of movement and purpose and the earth after rain. That was deep in him, and he turned towards it, welcomed it and followed when he was beckoned...And throughout all that time, there was a blaze of white power that was all restless brilliance and impatience but was gentle in turning him back. But the song he listened for the most, of snow-covered mountains and the cry of eagles high above, the song his heart yearned for was not there, though he strained to find it, searched for it...and finally he awoke bereft...but he could not remember for whom he searched, or what, just that the absence left him aching with grief.

 

A warm presence nearby drew him awake and he blinked. 

 

Gandalf sat on a low stool nearby, with his back to Legolas. He was hunched over, leaning forwards and a light shone from somewhere before him, bathing him in its unearthly glow, softening the contours and angles of his face, casting a silvery sheen on his skin and hair like starlight. Legolas felt overwhelmed for a moment and to him, it was again Olórin he saw; Legolas felt his Song keenly, already ancient under the starlit sky when the Elves first awoke. Slowly, understanding unfolded of the resonance that Gandalf caused in him. 

 

He lay for a moment, letting the deep, slow pulse of Olórin’s Song beat with his own heart. An absence nagged, tugged at him though and he struggled to waken fully. A bead of sweat rolled down his lip. He frowned and blinked slowly, painfully for his eyelids felt swollen , his head pounded, and he felt dizzy. And then he saw a fall of black silk next to him. Elrohir. The diamond-light flooded his face but he looked so still and pale. 

 

A memory surfaced and he grasped at it before it sank and drowned again; he had been sunk in fever, burning alive like he had been when the Eye had opened upon him. A black web had burned within him, had roared through his veins like wildfire, suffocating him. It had crawled over him like a rapist, writhed about his limbs and thrust its way into him, his lungs, veins, heart. And then Elrohir had come, like an eagle plummeting to his rescue. Elrohir had breathed life back into him, wrenched him from the web’s choking grasp, and wrapped it about himself like his rich sable cloak. 

 

...He felt a Voice calling him from across the mountains, clean snow glinting in moonlight and the stars hard and bright in the dark skies above him. He felt he stood on the mountains and looked up at the star-scattered vastness, Vingilot crested the midnight sky and he craned his neck to watch. The dark peaks silhouetted by the untouched snow and the Voice was fading, calling to him from across the empty Mountains and slowly, it vanished from his hearing, and he thought he saw a wall of silver-blue glass ahead, like a glacier. 

 

And then, suddenly Legolas felt cold. As if a warmth had cooled that had been in his life forever, one that he had never recognised as distinct and separate from him because it was so much a part of him. He gasped and clutched his chest for his heart felt as if it were struck.

 

‘No! You will not leave me!’

 

His eyes opened wide and he pushed himself upright. His head spun and he grabbed the bed to steady himself. Lifting his hand to his head, he stilled himself for a moment and then threw off the sheet, swinging his feet around so that he sat on the edge of the narrow bed. He meant to rise, but suddenly his head swam and he felt nausea flood through him. Bile stung his throat and he lifted his hand to his lips. 

 

Gandalf turned and with surprising strength, he pressed a hand against Legolas firmly keeping him on the bed, though allowing him to sit upright. ‘Where do you think you are going, Thranduillion?’ he demanded irritably and suddenly Olórin was gone and there was the Wizard that Thranduil complained of and always obliged.

 

He had not the strength to resist but he saw that Elrohir lay on the next bed and it was he whom Gandalf leaned over and tended. Elohir’s eyes were shut and his skin gleamed with sweat. Legolas traced the pattern of veins, so dark red they were almost black and then he saw the threads slide and writhe beneath the pale skin.

 

‘Elrohir!’ he cried. ‘He took it! He took the darkness from me. He sacrificed himself!’

 

A look of intense compassion flickered through Gandalf’s eyes. ‘Yes. He took it from you. You were dying.’

 

‘And now? Is he dying instead of me?’

 

Gandalf looked back at Elrohir and sighed. ‘Maybe. He is strong...but I think he may wish this.’

 

‘He wishes it? He cannot die! Not now, not when I have just found him!’ Legolas declared vehemently. He stared at his own clean hands, clear of the writhing black threads and he felt his own strength and vigour slowly returning. Then he looked back up at Gandalf, determined. ‘I will take it back!’

 

‘Like a child’s game of Pass?’ Gandalf said dismissively, handing him a cup of cool water that was suffused with something else. The bitterness took away the taste of bile and cleared his head. He did not miss the half smile on Gandalf’s lips. ‘No. I cannot let you. I still have a debt to repay your father and I cannot let you die.’

 

‘But you will let him?’ Legolas threw the cup away from himself and again tried to stand, but his legs were weak and he knew he did not have the strength. 

 

‘Gandalf, I beg you. I have done everything you have asked. It is not my father you owe, it is I to whom you owe a debt.’ Legolas leaned from his bed and plucked at Gandalf’s sleeve. ‘I beg you, save him. I will do anything. I will take it back to myself. Please.’ The light that bathed Elrohir fell onto him now and though he felt weak and his arms trembled, he felt stronger for the warmth of the light. He saw the light came from a small glass globe placed near Elrohir and he recognised it and gasped.

 

At that, Gandalf softened and a light came into his face so he looked suddenly beautiful. ‘They both live’ he said simply, knowing that Legolas would understand.

 

Legolas felt his eyes sting with tears and the great tide of emotion swept over him. ‘If Frodo and Sam live, then there must be hope too for Elrohir? Gandalf, I will beg on my knees if I must!’ He bowed his head to let his pale hair fall around him. It was all too much right now. The light of the Mariner shone up into his face then and he pushed aside his weakness, looking down at his beloved’s face, so still and pale. It was like looking upon his corpse. He felt a slow shudder across his skin like cold fingers trailed over him and he thought himself bereft should it be this way. And he realised with sudden certainly that he would fade. It shocked him. 

 

‘No! You will not leave!’ he cried aloud as if Elrohir would hear him and pause.

 

‘Fools both of you,’ Gandalf said impatiently. ‘Do you think I am sitting idly by?’ He scooped up a blanket and threw it around Legolas’ shoulders. Then the Wizard knelt beside the bed now, opposite Legolas and leaned forwards, careful not to touch but to lift Elrohir’s head and held a cup to his dry lips so liquid dripped slowly into his mouth. 

 

Gandalf placed the cup on the floor beside him and threw a look at Legolas over his shoulder. ‘Now be silent, Thranduillion. You do not have to plead with me. I have work to do and I need you to not interfere...unless I say you can.’ The light seemed to pulse then, and shone brighter. The glow was unearthly and strange and made everything beautiful. 

 

Gandalf took a breath, and leaned over Elrohir now. Murmuring so quietly that even Legolas could not hear, Gandalf cradled the warm globe reverently in Elrohir’s hands. Elrohir stirred and moved his head slightly so his long black silk hair gleamed in the light caught from the Silmaril. It seemed to glow even more intensely, as if it recognised his Feanorian blood. Gandalf settled beside Elrohir then and appeared to sink deep into memory, a sort of trance that left Legolas watching passively and helpless. 

 

It seemed a long time they stayed thus and then Legolas felt a strange impulse to take the phial from Gandalf. He pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, knew the venom had left his blood but had weakened him. He sank onto the bed next to Elrohir and gently, with immense tenderness and love, stroked his face. Elrohir’s skin, already pale, was white, like the blood had been drained from him. He was very still and he barely seemed to breathe.

 

Legolas leaned forwards and through the sable cloak, he cupped his own hands around Elrohir’s still fingers clasped about the warm globe of light. The light that was like the star, fractured into something impossible. It glowed and seemed to leap towards Elrohir, shifting like it passed from the ancient night to the forest, and the early morning sunlight streamed through the green-gold of beech trees in Spring. A green-gold glow washed through the diamond light and it softened and glowed, casting lights on the walls of the tent and Legolas felt his breath catch, for he heard a Song soar and his heart swelled at the love that flooded the small tent then. He knew then, unshakably, what he would do.

 

‘I will follow you. I will not wait...’

 

He leaned forwards and pressed his warm mouth onto the cold lips, did not care if the web slithered onto him, for he knew he would follow. 

 

 

oo0o0o0o0o0oo

 

 

Elrohir was lost. The black web suffocated him, pressed slowly upon him, bound and cocooned so he could barely breathe, barely move and Elrohir had wondered that Legolas had made it so far and for so long... 

 

It had been slow at first. The black threads had curled as if aware of his intentions, and slowly reached out to his own inviting fingers from beneath Legolas’ own skin...like tendrils of black ink, like serpents. They had surged at the new blood, new flesh, and crawled onto him, poured into him, burned through his veins and flesh, crushed his fluttering heart so he could barely breathe. 

 

He had tried not to give up though and in spite of the pain, he had pressed deeper into the poison, delving its inky blackness...and felt the dark sorcery of the Nazgûl...

 

Then he had seen with absolute clarity what they had intended...

 

An iron crown was never going to be enough to tame him, to bend him to the Will of the Power that dwelt in the black tower like a spike of malice. Sauron demanded more; demanded Elrohir’s obedience, not merely his acquiescence. He demanded fealty. And did not believe He would get it. So He would bind Elrohir to his dark will through Legolas.

 

The flames leaped and burned. They watched silently, coldly and a shadow twisted against the stone walls of the cell. Fire gleamed orange, streaked with black. A shadow threw back its head and a scream split the quiet watchfulness. A long river of golden hair caught in the firelight, eyes tightly shut, teeth clenched and the iron manacles bit deep. Legolas. No. He could not speak the name, could not stop himself for the iron crown, the Ring lifted his hand to drift down a lean hip, stroke the sweat from panting flanks, cup his sex which shriveled in horror. The Ring compelled him and the crown bore down upon him...

 

Elrohir had understood. The venom had been intended to paralyze Legolas, weaken him so he could be taken to Barad-dûr. For him.

 

Elrohir had pressed deeper, had suppressed his fury, his molten power, so the black threads had scurried back, retreated and then rushed at him, sinking into him, crawling over him where he lay, passive and tempting.

 

Come, he had invited, offering his hand. Come. He had offered his body to its hungry ravenous maws and it had moved quickly then, writhed and scuttled and crawled into him. He had felt it tighten its grip upon his throat, his lungs, shift its heavy mass over his and smother him.

 

For a while he had merely fought to remain conscious; he had felt Elladan was near, felt his blue coolness...an intense blue, like the deepening sky at dusk, pure and deep. He had known that Aragorn too was near, felt his calm healing, the hands of a king indeed...but it would not be enough to save him.

 

Later, he heard Legolas speak. With a sigh, he felt himself weaken then. He had done it. He had saved Legolas from the Web. He could let go. 

 

He felt thoughts slide like silver-blue silk on his skin. He felt the growing coolness of his being, his fea, and the cool breeze of ...of... he did not have the words for it but somewhere, far away, he caught the scent of meadow grass, of dim shady pools and the forest stream running away, westwards...into the great slow river that rolled across the lands to the sea. 

 

Salt spray was on his lips as it had been so long ago...so long ago when that small, shrunken figure huddled into her grey cloak and hurried along the grey stone pier, never looking back, never once even pausing to look back...

 

He stood with tears streaming down his face and felt the immense surge of grief break over him so he wanted to cry out...and then...and then, impossibly, she turned. She turned and lifted her hood back and her long cornsilk hair caught in the wind and streamed around her. 

 

No... Mother...Nana...the child in him cried and reached for her and the man in him trembled and shook with fear. But the smile that softened her shadowed face was a mother’s for her child and so full of love, forgiveness...

 

Mother, he cried. She was waiting, reached out her hand to him and he wanted, oh how he wanted to go to her...the child in him ran and fell sobbing into her lap... But the man? The man hid in shame and turned from her in his guilt and despair...He heard her call but he would not turn to face her. Instead he ran away, stumbling away as quickly as he could. 

 

Something liquid and sweet trickled past his lips and a light of green-gold seemed to surround him, and that intense blue of deepening sky - he wasn’t sure where one started and the other ended for it seemed odd but both suffused him He was so tired and pain dulled the edge of feeling and awareness but that blue-green intensity was stopping him, and voices struggled to keep him there when he turned again to the silver glass...It was the Sea...

 

You will not leave!

 

He wished the voice would let him go but that Song that was in his heart held him close like he was cherished and the blue evening intensified, deepened more than he thought possible and washed round him, like night. There were stars brighter, like huge swirls of silver light...He wanted to sleep and turned towards the silver shores where he could see beyond a far green land. He sighed with longing and in that sigh, a breath....

 

Ahead of him was a light, like the opening of a door. The brightness did not blind him...and there was the distant horizon...The world cooled, turned to blue and silver glass.

 

I will follow you. I will not wait.

 

A voice reached him across the distance and he paused before he stepped into the light, turned briefly. The stars wheeled in the vastness of the heavens.

 

Do not leave me! A strange Elf dressed in green and brown, was running towards him, running light across the snow and sand and his feet left no footprints. Starlight caught in his hair, in his eyes, and he reached out to catch Elrohir as he paused and turned to look back...

 

No! The Elf cried for he could not follow where Elrohir would go. 

 

It is better this way, said Elrohir gently to the Elf who ran faster, his feet flying over the snow, reaching for him, despair in those green eyes... You are free.

 

No! You will not do this! You will not leave me! 

 

Ah, but he was so so tired...and everything hurt. He felt his paling crimson dimmed to softness like a sunset sky... bleeding into grey.... The deep blue night caressed him but lightly as if it withdrew...

 

No! You will not leave.

 

Warmth was on his cold mouth. Another’s warmth. Wetness on his cold skin. 

 

The voice trailed away...Crimson turning grey and the white shores were ahead of him... 

 

 

00oo0o0o0o0o00ooooo

 

 

Too late did Gandalf see Legolas lean in and kiss Elrohir. But he knew by then that Legolas had chosen to follow him and would fade. And it shocked him beyond anything, for he saw Elrohir’s choice and it was not for the Elves. Sorrow settled upon him and he bowed his head.

 

In that moment he saw that Elladan too had returned and stood gasping and breathless. He had run back. Elladan threw himself beside Legolas and clasped Elrohir’s hand in his, regardless of the black threads, tears streaming down his face. The light of the Silmaril caught on his devastated face and Olórin then saw the despair that approached inexorably, but he could not interfere in this. He wondered why the Gift of the Peredhel was such a curse. 

 

Olórin bowed his head. His work was done. He need not do anything more really; Mairon was vanquished, banished into the dreadful Void with his dark Master. And his own grief, his own great loss, he had thrust aside. But oh, he would grieve. He would grieve for the loss of the bright, burnished spirit of fire, the vibrant curiosity that had once been Aürušur*...Olórin himself would grieve as did Legolas, as Elladan. For they would be as separated by Elrohir’s Choice as if he too were cast into the Void.

 

He saw that Legolas had raised his head, gazing at Elrohir with such devoted adoration, the light of the Silmaril shining in his eyes and resolved that he would follow. 

 

Olórin felt something in him quietly break. Surely the One did not mean for such suffering? But Vairë’s loom was already spun and to interfere might be to cut loose some thread already woven. Yet...

 

A prayer then, to the One. A last prayer, for already Olórin had been granted a great boon. But one more... he must try.

 

He reached out then, and walked along the silver-glass shore for a while towards the kindly light that opened for Elrohir. And then gently he turned Elrohir back.

 

Go back. He waits for you. 

 

His breath whispered over Elrohir’s burning skin and sought the dying flame within him. With his own Narya he lit a torch in the cooling heat that was almost spent.

 

Go back. He calls you.

 

For a moment, there was only the quietly guttering flame. And then, like a dragon awakening, Elrohir’s own crimson power surged, his fiery spirit kindled and he burned. Fire raged in him, crimson fury and power flooded him, poured like molten lava through his veins. The black threads caught alight and flames ignited in the suffocating web and it burst into flames.

 

A blazing soul, Elrohir turned and gazed and gazed at the strange Elf who ran towards him, a green-gold presence that reached out to him, that stretched out his hand and caught him in a hold that was stronger than he was himself. Legolas. 

 

Olórin felt the Song soar, the huge notes spiraled and surged together...they melted one into another and built into a beautiful crescendo. He listened rapt, as Elrohir’s own Song lifted on the wind above the snow-clad peaks, and circled higher to where eagles soared in the cold blue skies....the wind lifting them so they could look down and see the jewel that was Arda. Olórin smiled. This was right then. He had chosen well. He wondered then, as he looked upon the two Elves, how he could leave MIddle Earth, how he could leave these senses, these passions and feelings, this love. He was unutterably changed. And his heart would never rest again beneath the unchanging skies of Valinor...

 

He was aware, that somewhere, nearby, there was a breath...and then another breath. But he only listened to the Great Music that surged around him like the Sea, calling him home...but he did not want to leave.

00o0o0o0o0

 

 

tbc- about two more.

 

naithlhoth meaning spike flower- echinacea. A poultice of charcoal and echinacea can be used to draw out poisons / venoms.

 

Aürušur* see previous chapter. Olórin’s name for Sauron. (In Sons AU verse only.)


	45. Of Pipeweed and Tall Tales

As always, my thanks go my very generous beta, Anarithilien who has her careful hand on the rudder and steers me back from my more wild moments.

 

 

Summary: The Nazgul had constructed a poison that was intended to paralyse and suffocate Legolas so they could bring him alive to Barad-dur and that would keep Elrohir bound to Sauron. Of course Sauron fell and the poison, a spider poison that took the form of threads that wove into a suffocating web, had almost destroyed Legolas until Elrohir took it to himself. Gandalf saved him and so Elrohir is alive but still unconscious. Frodo and Sam are recovered and sleeping.

 

Chapter 44: Pipeweed and tall tales

 

It was long after daybreak that Gandalf gently loosened Legolas' hand from Elrohir's and tucked it back beneath his own blanket. There was no trace of the Web. It was gone. Incinerated. Legolas stirred slightly and winced and Gandalf stroked his head gently. This was his one last prayer, his one last boon. He did not regret it.

 

His knees cracked as he pushed himself upright, using his staff. This body was a burden but there was not much time left that it needed to serve him. He looked down at his own hands, marveling again at the tangle of veins and sinew that made it work, that showed through the skin that became more transparent with age. Sometimes he knew his own true self showed through the thin vessel of a body, and there were times when his Power had flooded the mortal body, wearing it out more quickly...He would miss taste, and smell, he thought. He needed a smoke.

 

Elladan had fallen asleep in the earliest hours of dawn, slumped next to his brother and Gandalf gave him a sharp tap with his staff. 'Wake up, Elrondion. I am leaving,' he said briskly.

 

He did not wait for Elladan to acknowledge him but shoved apart the tent flap and stepped out into the clean morning air. The camp was astir. Tents were being collapsed and wagons waited to be packed up, cart horses waited patiently, resting on one hoof. Imrahil seemed to be in charge, ordering the men and organizing things generally, Gandalf thought approvingly. Eomer stood nearby and was nodding slowly, agreeing with something the Prince had said. Gandalf narrowed his eyes shrewdly - it would be no bad thing for a union between the two kingdoms. If he recalled correctly, Imrahil had a very lovely daughter with long pale gold hair. Quite clearly she had inherited her father's elven blood, the Wizard mused, striding between the doused campfires and men who were busily picking up their weapons and few belongings. Eomer should find her pleasing, Gandalf thought wryly. He might interfere just a little more, just to make sure things were secure as they should be.

 

He lifted his staff slightly in greeting just as Aragorn emerged from Frodo's tent, tousled and blinking, and strode towards him. Less Heir of Isildur and more Strider of the Fellowship, thought Gandalf, smiling at him fondly.

 

Aragorn lifted his hand in greeting and smiled too, for he had glad news. 'Frodo awoke briefly,' he called to Gandalf as he drew near. 'He has eaten some little food but sleeps once more.'

 

Gandalf felt a huge sense of gladness and relief. His guilt over sending the two small Hobbits to do such a mighty deed was not lessened by their rescue. If they awoke and absolved him he would rest more easily. 'Legolas was also awake for a little while.' Gandalf came to stand beside Aragorn. 'Elrohir has not awoken but the darkness has gone from them both and all is well.'

 

'All is well, you say?' came a deep voice as Gimli emerged from the tent looking as though he had not slept a wink. And well he might not have, for he would have worried himself half to death, Gandalf realised and felt a guilty twinge. Although Aragorn had returned to Frodo's tent to sleep once Legolas was safe, Gandalf had not sent word when Legolas awoke, and it would have been easy to have done so. 'Pippin is sleeping too,' the Dwarf added.

 

'Ah, good.' Gandalf smiled. 'Safe and sound. All tucked in.' He allowed himself a quiet sense of satisfaction. All safe...Almost. He would not let himself think about Boromir just yet. And there were other stories yet to be played out, he smiled to himself.

 

"Right. I am going to check on Legolas,' Gimli said and stomped past Gandalf.

 

'And I am going to check on the Hobbits,' returned Gandalf. 'All of them!' As the Dwarf passed, Gandalf caught the delightfully bitter fragrance of pipeweed. He stopped for a moment and turned towards the Dwarf. 'Haven't got a bit of pipeweed on you have you?'

 

Gimli's eyes darted towards Aragorn and then away sheepishly. 'Er...no. Seem to have run out somewhere between Osgiliath and er...Mordor.'

 

Gandalf scowled. 'Well, it must have been very good stuff for the scent of it clings to you both still!' He glared at Aragorn and Gimli scurried off. Yes, scurried, thought Gandalf suddenly bad tempered. Aragorn laughed and reached into his tunic.

 

'Let it not be said that I ever denied you,' he said and generously held out his pouch.

 

'And let it never be said that it was not rewarded a thousandfold!' Gandalf patted Aragorn on the shoulder and dipped inside the tent. Aragorn followed and they stood for a moment in silent awe. He had returned the Light of Eärendil some hours ago and it nestled between Frodo and Sam, a soft light shining over their starved little faces. Its starlight was unearthly still, undimmed, and Gandalf felt a little of his mortality dissipate, like mist, for like called to like.

 

Aragorn glanced at him briefly. 'You have a little time to rest,' he said with a concern that Gandalf found irritating, for he had much to accomplish in this brief time left to him. 'We leave today but we will move the Hobbits later when we move the other injured. They will be in one wagon. Pippin can travel with them if he wishes. And Gimli will travel with Legolas and Elrohir.'

 

'Hm. If you think that is wise,' Gandalf peered at Aragorn quizzically. The King Returned snorted in a most unkingly manner and grinned disconcertingly before he took his leave.

 

Gandalf pulled up a low chair and settled himself into it to watch and smoke, for someone had told him that pipeweed could bring folk back* and if it brought anyone back it would be a Hobbit. He stuffed the bowl of his long thin pipe and tamped it down, and looking aorund, saw that Gimli had carelessly left his tinderbox behind so he reached for it and struck a flame. It flared and quietened and he puffed on the pipe, drawing out the smoke and then it caught. He drew a long breath and let the smoke tease between his teeth, filling his mouth. The taste was bitter and burnt the edge of his tongue in a pleasant way. The taste, ah, the taste...he would miss this, he thought.

 

He watched the Hobbits who slumbered under his care now, their faces thin and pale. And he felt. Yes, felt...and he would miss that too, for in the Other Place, feelings were ... different. This life was too brief a span and these mortal lives would fade and disappear; he would be left alone with only memories. All of them would fade and die. Frodo, Sam, Pippin, Merry, Aragorn, Bilbo, dear Bilbo, and Gimli...he and Legolas alone would endure. He sucked hard at the pipe, savouring the bitterness and let the thin smoke stream from between his lips. Yes, Legolas alone would endure. Gandalf let his eyes gaze off into the middle distance and thought a while about this youngest son of Thranduil. Legolas alone would be left...and would sail of course. Sooner or later. He could not help it now, the gulls had called him as they called to Olórin. He let his thoughts drift a little.

 

Nothing was certain. But perhaps the son of Elrond and the son of Thranduil would be a comfort to one another...as long as they didn't end up killing each other in the process, he thought wryly. Then he softened. Legolas had a long road ahead of him paved with grief as each one of the Fellowship passed. He sighed for he knew it would try him too and he glanced at the small Hobbits' faces, so worn and thin. He chewed the end of his slender pipe and drifted again. He knew he was wearing thin himself and he found it suddenly more difficult to focus. The battle had been hard on him, the destruction of his beloved Mairon had taken something from him too and he knew he would seek the Gardens of Lorien for healing. Closing his eyes, he fought the desire to look closer, to see beyond the thin veil between the worlds, to peer into the Darkness, to trace that blazing trail into the Void...

 

Still raw, he had wanted to spare Legolas that same plunge into despair. And he knew that his interference would not buy them anything more than a little time. Pray it be enough, he thought.

 

0o0o0o0o0o

 

Legolas leaned across and touched Elrohir where he lay as if dead. He was not dead, Legolas knew, but he needed to touch him, to be assured that life still pulsed through Elrohir's veins. Elladan was busy amongst the glass bottles, familiar blown glass of crimson, emerald, amber and golden...For a moment Legolas, newly awakened, had a moment of confusion when he thought he was yet upon the SeaSong and all this a dream.

 

Legolas knew the venom was gone, but he felt very weak and his veins were sore at every pulse of his heart, still swollen. Earlier Gimli had bustled in and at the sight of Legolas he had started in horror and then clutched at Legolas' hand. The Dwarf had briefly assured himself that Legolas would not die suddenly while he was not there, and then rushed off to berate Aragorn no doubt. Legolas felt sorry for Aragorn for a moment and smiled, but that hurt too so he sank back onto the hard pillow, feeling the blanket scratchy and meagre when he wanted softness and warmth. This is still a battlefield, he reminded himself. And you are still a warrior of the Wood. He thought how his brothers would tease him when they knew and then was overcome for he still had no word from the North, and though the Shadow was gone, there could still be battles fought under the trees of his home. How glad he was that old Smaug was gone, for a dragon would have devastated the North had he been won by Sauron's promises of gold and treasure.

 

'You waken more fully.' It was Elladan and he stood now over Legolas, his eyes lit by a strange light. He tore his gaze away as if he did not want to look anymore and Legolas frowned, but he did not really care. Elrohir was safe. Gandalf had saved him, he knew. He felt an immense wave of gratitude towards Gandalf then and wanted to kneel before him, plight his fealty, swear an undying loyalty... He laughed at himself for he was foolish as a Feanorian...and then checked himself again. He must remember to curb those sayings if he was not to offend his Noldo beloved. He almost laughed aloud and put his hand in front of his mouth.

 

'Drink this,' Elladan thrust a tin cup towards him. The amber liquid swirled within and smelt foul. 'It will clear your head and your blood.' Legolas wrinkled his nose. 'Drink,' Elladan said but he spoke gently and this time, he smiled.

 

Legolas took the cup - Naithlhoth mixed with other horrible medical plants beloved by healers, he thought wrinkling his nose. He recognised that pungent scent and knew the taste was worse. He tipped his head, letting the thick fluid slide down his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut at the horrible taste. And then shook his head as if he could rid himself of the taste. But it worked quickly upon him, he felt the cleansing of his blood and his head cleared, the pain dulled. He blinked hard and thought he felt less sore, his skin less inflamed. He glanced down at his hands; the veins, still red and visible under his skin, seemed a little less swollen. But when he looked across to Elrohir, hoping for a similarly hopeful outlook, he was disappointed for Elrohir's eyes were tightly closed and his face was crumpled in pain. The veins were almost purple, and there were bruises under his eyes and his skin pale. When Legolas reached over and stroked his hand over Elrohir's head, he was warm and clammy.

 

'It will be some time before he awakens. Days perhaps. Maybe weeks. It is not only the venom he fights, but there are other wounds. Wounds of the soul.' He heard Elladan speak and lifted his eyes to where he stood in the thin morning light. 'Perhaps it is best. When we move him, it is better he sleeps...' He paused for a moment and then said, 'Will you stay with him?'

 

'Of course,' Legolas answered quickly. 'I will be there when he awakens.' He looked back at Elrohir's sleeping face. 'For he will awake. Whether it is days, or weeks...or months. I will be here.'

 

Elladan looked away.

 

'I know he almost died,' Legolas said quietly. 'I know he sacrificed himself for me. I will not let him die.'

 

Elladan bowed his head and would not meet his gaze so Legolas sighed. He could understand Elladan's resentment. 'We both love him,' he said softly.

 

Elladan said nothing for a moment. Then he looked up and met Legolas' eyes. 'Forgive me,' he said but he could not keep his eyes on Legolas for long and looked away. 'It is hard to know how close he came to...'

 

'Death,' Legolas closed the silence that followed.

 

'Yes.' Elladan's grey eyes were serious, fixed on the low-hung lamp above them. 'And in that, how close he came to choosing the Way of Men.'

 

Legolas stared at him, a cold squeeze in his heart.

 

'You didn't know?' Elladan looked at him realising. 'We are Peredhel. The Gift is the choice...'

 

'I know what the Gift is,' Legolas interrupted, more abruptly than he intended and Elladan almost flinched, but then nodded with a sympathy and compassion that Legolas could not bear. He stared at Elrohir, the beloved features gentled in repose.

 

It shocked him more than anything to realise that he had come so close to losing Elrohir for all eternity, that Elrohir might have actually chosen the Way of Men and gone forever beyond the circles of the world. And Legolas could not follow.

 

Elladan shifted closer to Legolas and rested his hand on his shoulder. 'He was dying.' He turned his head to follow where Legolas looked, upon his brother's sleeping form. Quietly he said, 'Elrohir has always been closer to Men.' He was still then, looking silently upon his brother's lovely face, tortured and distorted by the venom in his veins, by the memory of the Nazgûl in his thoughts.

 

Legolas could not speak. He could not think. He had almost lost Elrohir? Not just to death, but lost until the Ending of the World?

 

'Forgive me for what I am about to say, Legolas,' Elladan stirred. He moved his hand from Legolas' shoulder and Legolas blinked and stirred, steeled himself. Surely there could not be more to bear? 'I need to understand and be understood...for my brother's sake.' He paused and stole a quick look at Legolas.

 

Then he said, 'You have been generous with your heart.'

 

Legolas breathed and gave a wry smile. It was true. He was silvan, avari, and that was their way.

 

'There are those that you have loved, and who might love you still,' Elladan continued hesitantly and Legolas glanced away embarrassed.

 

A hand gently touched his hot cheek and he felt blue calm stroke away his unease and the knot of tension smoothed away. He glanced up surprised. Elladan was watching him with a kind smile that made him feel very young and foolish.

 

'I do not say this to make you feel you have done wrong,' Elladan said gently. 'But this must be said. You must understand Elrohir if you are to love him as I do.' He paused and seemed to think for a while. Legolas held himself still, waiting. And in spite of Elladan's words and his kindliness, he thought himself judged and found wanting, and did not blame Elladan.

 

When Elladan spoke again, his voice was quiet, reflective. 'Elrohir is not like you. He has not loved often... He will not understand how your body can be shared so lightly, without his thinking that your heart is given lightly too.'

 

Legolas closed his eyes, thinking. It was all true, he thought. It explained Elrohir's violent reaction to his stupid pursuit of Eomer all that time ago in Minas Tirith...the memory was scorched onto him, the hands round his neck, the words 'whore' burned him still.

 

'I have seen that you are different with him.' Elladan spoke earnestly now, and he moved so Legolas looked up to meet his grey eyes. 'I know it is different with him,' he said emphatically and held Legolas' serious gaze. 'Gandalf turned him back from death, but he came back for you. He stays his choice for you.'

 

Legolas found his fingers clutching at the thin blanket that covered Elrohir, searching for his hand. Even without Elladan's assurance, he knew what he said was true; Elrohir's tender, all-encompassing love had cradled him, wrapped itself around him, took the choking black web to himself and laid his own life down so that Legolas would live...And then, on the brink of death, Elrohir had turned back. Legolas almost trembled at the passion, the violence, the tenderness. Elrohir would possess him utterly and would brook no sharing. And he found himself wanting that completeness. Because he realised suddenly that, for him, nothing else would suffice.

 

'I do not want to walk a different road from him,' he said simply. 'The thought that he is not in the world, that he go beyond the circles of the world is unbearable. I do not know what I would do if he were to take the Way of Men and be forever sundered from me.' He found that even the thought of it sank him a little in despair and he reached out to catch Elrohir's fingers in his and held them tightly as if he could stop him.

 

A touch from Elladan turned him and Legolas found himself caught in that grey gaze that was so utterly different from Elrohir's. He felt himself weighed and tested in the way that he had when the Fellowship had stumbled into Lothlorien, wounded and each lost in his own grief; each one of them had been judged by Galadriel. He felt the same now as Elladan searched his face, and his heart it seemed. But he did not mind the compassion now, for there was understanding too.

 

Elladan smiled gently. 'Let us make sure together that he does not.'

 

0ooo00o0o

 

The camp was astir and moving. All around them, Legolas could hear tents were being collapsed and wagons moving slowly out. Horses moved past, and he imagined them swishing their tails and shaking their heads. Elladan had been summoned to council with Aragorn and Gimli had arrived a moment ago flustered and anxiously fussing round Legolas. Now a small group of Men entered the tent almost reverently, nodding courteously first at Gimli, and staring in awe at Legolas before recovering and nodding at him too. He shifted uncomfortably under their gaze and stirred, for he was conscious of his half naked state and they seemed mesmerised by the yarë-camë swirling on his skin, but they merely began quietly to move things outside, loading up a wagon that had pulled up outside.

 

Legolas watched silently from the narrow bed, knowing the moment would come when they would want to move him. He did not think he could bear that. He turned his head slightly as they lifted Elrohir's narrow pallet bed with him still unconscious, and lumbered clumsily out of the tent. He could hear them grunting as they hauled him onto the wagon and he rubbed his hand across his eyes angry with himself; it was his carelessness with that last Uruk that had led to all this.

 

'Aragorn has ordered that the injured are to be moved last.' Gimli observed him with bright, shrewd eyes. 'Everything else will have already begun to move so at least you are left until last and there will be comfort when we arrive.' He rose to his feet and brushed down his tunic. 'Well, it looks like they are ready to load you up,' he said as if Legolas were so much baggage, and Legolas caught the glint in Gimli's eyes.

 

'You will be in wagons while those of us who managed to not get half killed and are hale and whole can guard the weakest,' Gimli said, trying a bit harder. He stuck his hands in his belt and stood squarely, eyes narrowed.

 

But Legolas did not respond. He was listening to the Men settling Elrohir and returning to the tent. They are here for the last piece of baggage, he thought and thinned his lips. He did not know how much he looked like his father in that moment but he could see the two Men baulk. He did not speak but fixed them with a steely eye until they shifted uncomfortably and looked nervously at each other. Furious with himself, he held up his hand to stop them and swung his feet out of the bed. He swayed a little even as he sat there on the edge of the bed for his head swam and his legs felt wobbly.

 

And then a warm square hand steadied him.

 

'I will see to him, thank you,' Gimli said and waved away the two anxious Men. They bowed gratefully and left in more haste than was strictly necessary, thought Legolas, supposing they did not look forward to manhandling him any more than he did.

 

'Here, I will help you if you will accept it,' Gimli said and shook out a clean shirt. He held it out to Legolas, who reached for it carefully but he knew he could not manage on his own and let his arm fall by his side. Gimli gave him a shrewd look and cocked his head on one side, watching Legolas astutely.

 

'Have I told you about the time I was buried alive?' the Dwarf said, holding the shirt open. 'It was ...'

 

'Yes, you have,' Legolas bit his lip so as not to wince as he pushed himself to his feet.

 

Gimli looked affronted. 'You don't even know where and I have not told you all my stories yet!' He held the shirt open and Legolas raised each arm carefully, wincing as the new skin pulled, and pushed his arms into the sleeves.

 

'Let me guess,' Legolas murmured. 'Deep cast or open cast?'*

 

Gimli grinned delighted and his white teeth gleamed. 'Deep cast,' he said, standing in front of Legolas and pulling the shirt closed.

 

Legolas raised his hand and tried to tie the laces but his fingers felt too big and clumsy and he fumbled uselessly. Gimli let him try first and then gently pushed his hands out of the way and finished the task.

 

Legolas looked about for his boots and saw them lying near his narrow bed. 'Iron or silver?' he asked, letting Gimli push him gently back to the bed and reach over for his boots. He let Gimli kneel before him and hold the boots open while he shoved his feet into Dwarf grunted as he pulled at the tops of the boots and Legolas pushed his feet in further and between them, they managed. It was not quite comfortable but Legolas did not feel strong enough to care.

 

'Silver.' Gimli picked up his green sueded tunic and looked at it doubtfully.

 

'The Blue Mountains,' Legolas said smugly and took his tunic from Gimli, folding it carefully. It was not fit for use, blood crusted on it and a black stain marked the cut from the Uruk.

 

'Yes!' Gimli cried delighted. 'You have been listening after all! You have made much progress in your understanding of the Earth,' he said in the tone of a teacher with a very slow and stupid pupil who has finally, at last, understood the most basic rudiments. Legolas smiled to himself weakly, carefully stowing his tunic in his open pack, but slowly for he could not move with anything like his usual speed, and he fumbled to close the buckles of his pack before Gimli reached out and took it from him.

 

'Now, let me see how much you can work out for yourself. Deep cast silver mine, in the Blue Mountains. Can you work out why I was buried alive?' Gimli asked, eyes fastened on his slow-witted pupil.

 

'You were very irritating to your fellows?' Legolas asked innocently.

 

'Oh?' the Dwarf said loudly, intending others outside the tent to hear him now, 'You are feeling wobbly, Legolas, and would like some big burly Man to sling you like a sack of coal over one shoulder and carry you into the wagon? Why, I am sure one of those Guards of the Tower will help you. Or maybe one of...ow!' A small tin cup had hit the Dwarf on his round, hard head.

 

'You seem much recovered,' Gimli said, sounding unsure if he was quite pleased about it.

 

Outside the tent, the sky was a washed clean blue, and there was still the scent of rain from the night before. Legolas breathed in and though there was still the iron tang of Mordor, it felt different. Cleaner. The clouds were ragged white but they were only clouds and there was none of the threat that was there before. Sauron was truly gone.

 

Wagons trundled past some drawn by oxen, and others by heavy horses, the feathers of their legs long and knotted with mud now. The narrow wooden wheels of the carts and wagons rutted the mud as it churned beneath hooves and feet and wheels. A small group of Men sang as they loaded up the last wagon and one whistled an accompaniment as the last few injured were hoisted into the last wagons.

 

Gimli nudged Legolas' elbow but did not take his arm and for that, Legolas was glad. But he needed help getting into the wagon and Gimli had to scramble up before him and then haul Legolas up behind him. It was hardly Elven grace, he thought. But he did not care, for inside the wagon on a thin mattress on the dusty floor, Elrohir lay as one dead, white faced and still. The light was yellow through the canvas cover of the wagon and around them were boxes and boxes packed tight. Medical supplies, he thought looking round.

 

Gimli was fussing, laying out another thin mattress next to where Elrohir lay. 'Here, you can lie here if you wish. Make sure you don't jar yourself.'

 

Legolas smiled. 'Yes, Nana Gimli,' he said fondly and because he knew it always delighted and irritated the Dwarf in equal measure, he patted him on the head before settling his long limbs on the mattress next to Elrohir and taking his old hand in his, he settled down to watch over him.

 

00o0o0o

 

Legolas fidgeted uncomfortably and fretted. He was bored rigid but knew he was not quite strong enough yet to leave the wagon that trundled along the rutted and pitted road. He was jostled and jounced and rolled about and he felt quite sure it was doing neither him nor Elrohir any good. He had plumped up the blanket he had taken from his own thin mattress and tucked around Elrohir to minimize the impact of the jostling but he still winced whenever they went over a rut and twice Legolas had shouted at the driver for his carelessness. Arod plodded behind, poking his head in between the canvas sheets and nosing about for tidbits whenever the wagon stumbled to a halt in a rut or got stuck in the mud that was being churned up by the long procession of wagons and horses and feet. It had taken five days to march the whole route from Minas Tirith to the Morannon and now it seemed like he had been stuck in this wagon for weeks. The wagons took longer, the oxen that drew the wagons were slow and plodding and it would be another two days at least before they reached the field of Cormallen whence they headed.

 

Gimli strode alongside, sometimes he rode behind Eomer and sometimes he climbed up into the wagons with the recovering Hobbits or Elves. Legolas travelled with Elrohir and that was his one consolation. The wagon was loaded up with medical supplies and that meant little space for the two Elves and sometimes a box would come loose and slide about on the wagon floor that was dusty and hard and had bits of straw on it. Sometimes he was bored and fretted and like now, he looked out at the passing land. He noticed how the scorched and grey lands of Mordor changed and the earth became richer, the smells of grass and growing things tempting him to leap from the wagon regardless of injury, and run lightly towards the great silver ribbon of water, the Anduin, where it flowed endlessly to the Sea.

 

Most times, he sat quietly watching the light shifting on black silk hair, remembering the way his beloved raised grey eyes to his, thinking about the power of his movement, remembering each moment, taking each one out like a jewel. It was beyond mere attraction, it was soul and bone deep. Elrohir commanded him.

 

... he smoothed his long fingers against Elrohir's heart, tracing a circle over his breast and said, 'You called my name.' A memory, submerged and lost ... of hands tracing the runes of his name, it had called to him…No, summoned, commanded him. And he had simply obeyed.

 

Now it was night and the march had ceased. All was quiet and he watched over Elrohir in the wagon for they did not unload the injured. He smoothed his hand over Elrohir's dark head and stroked the long black silk hair, let it run through his fingers, let it trail between them, let his breathing slow and listened to the sounds below the sounds of the world, deeper than his heartbeat, deeper than the thump of his own blood ... Then he heard the eagles call high over snow, far away, too high for them to heed him. He let himself drift. Memory took him onto the paths of Elven dreams...

 

'It is not me you want…' Elrohir had said gently pushing Legolas away and Legolas finding the resistance exciting, thinking still of the lingering, smouldering, yearning kiss he had from Elladan before, had pushed himself against the other Elf… Elrohir…

 

'Let me show you how much I don't want you,' Legolas had pressed Elrohir back against the thin timber wall and licked lazily down his mouth to his throat, traced the rounded tip of his ear. Wanting him, wanting him to respond, and still listening for the long notes of Elladan's song, like moonlight, like petals floating on still pools. Instead he found a hot red glow and fiery power, still vibrating from the fight to win Nestor back for the living… a fierce, pounding rhythm of fire and red leaping flames, an angry burning and longing…it was the song of the sword and of war.

 

He lingered on the memory. A stroke of desire caressed his skin, pooled in his belly. At the Morannon, despair had drowned him such as he had never known, of such intensity he thought he would die. Because he thought Elrohir lost.

 

Thunder rolled and rolled around the valley, until it filled the air. His hair crackled and prickles skittered over his skin. Immense pressure as if a storm were coming, built up, pressed down on him. But he did not care. He had seen the black horse fall beneath the great behemoth of the Nazgul and Elrohir had not emerged from the red dust that rose like flocks of birds. Legolas had bowed his head, his shoulders slumped slightly and he had covered his eyes with his hand for he thought he would die of grief that pierced him like the Morgul blade.

 

He had felt a rush of air, of heat, like a wildfire raging through the forest. Legolas lifted his head. His eyes widened, lips parted and before he could speak, Elrohir was before him, had cupped the back of Legolas' head and brought him close. Elrohir stared for a moment, and Legolas felt his heart searched, opened, penetrated and he was powerless. And then he was pulled to Elrohir, and he pressed his mouth against his, pushing between his lips as he gasped and Elrohir's tongue filled his mouth, fierce, brief, passionate. He heard eagles soar above the snow.

 

'I will find you,' he said, pulling back and Legolas gazed at him, full of wonder. 'When this is done, I will find you.' He pushed a loose hair back from Legolas' face. He did not pause but turned and strode down the slope. Men parted for him and turned their faces towards him in admiration for he was fell and fair and had braved the Nazgul and the Black Gate alone with Gandalf. Legolas filled with love and pride, and there was too, fear for he had seen the dreadful images of his own torment and he did not know what that meant.

 

But he would not think on that now. No, for Elrohir had taken the Black Web to himself, pulled it from Legolas and called it to him, wrapped himself in it like it was his own sable cloak. Was not that enough? Elrohir had been prepared to give his own life for Legolas. And he wanted the furious passion, that fire and lust and rage. A thrum ran along his nerves and his veins filled with fire, like he was in battle.

 

All was quiet outside in the night. He could hear the breathing of the Men asleep and at rest. He ran his hands over his own hair, imagining it was Elrohir's hands on him. He leaned back, and let his left hand drift down his chest, lightly squeezing his own nipple between his fingers, down his chest to his flat belly and groin. He was hard and hot already and he had not had release, he thought, since Minas Tirith, and that was by his own hand. Old Smaug's long golden eyes gleamed up at him from where he coiled over Legolas' shoulder and slithered across his chest. He quirked an eyebrow. 'Old snake, you have seen too much,' he said, and he stroked his hardness so exquisite sensuality melted him into something else.

 

He breathed in, his lips parted and he closed his eyes, remembering Osgiliath, where he had stood with Elrohir on the roof of the ruined town with the stars hard and glittering bright above them. He had brought Elrohir to him with his song, kissed him with love and tenderness. Taken him by the hand and been taken by him. He had told Elrohir to yield but had yielded himself instead. He had found an answer to his own wild desire. Elrohir's possessive hunger overwhelmed him, hot and wanting to fill him, pushing down on him, forcing him to open, to submit…Such strength and passion and power. And how Legolas burned for him, felt it pool in his loins like liquid fire. He felt his own flesh rise and throb in spite of his weakness and let his head fall back against the wooden frame of the wagon, closed his eyes and thought of Elrohir in his ecstasy.

 

00o0oooo0000oo

 

They stopped often to let the cart horses and oxen rest, uncoupling them from their traces and letting them wander and find grass. The tang of hot metal that hung in the air around Mordor gradually dissipated and there was scrubby grass on the edges of that desolate and withered land.

 

On the second day, Legolas fretted in the confines of the wagon and he took turns watching over Elrohir with Elladan so he could go out into the fresh air and walk with Pippin or Gimli, for Aragorn had become remote, not from choice but necessity. A gentle friendship had developed quickly with Elladan, and Legolas found himself looking forward to the times Elladan joined him. They played chess or talked of their homes, Legolas hungry for stories of his beloved.

 

When he left the close confine of the wagon, Legolas carefully dismounted from the wagon, gingerly holding his arm for it was still sore and swollen. He wondered how long it would take to recover from the venom...a few days, a week? He had a spider bite once that had taken weeks to purge from his system, its venom deep in his blood, oozing like silt in his veins. This was worse.

 

Walking slowly alongside Gimli, he patted Arod or sang quietly, looking around and breathing in the good clean air of Ithilien. The army marched slowly, taking its ease. The Rohirrim sang their rousing songs in their own tongue which was rich and rolling like their lands, and the Men of Gondor were quieter and more reserved, but all smiled at one another and were comrades. Often he climbed into the wagon where Pippin watched over Frodo and Sam, and he, even with the venom lingering in his veins, was humbled by their sacrifice, their great courage.

 

At times Frodo half awoke and gazed at them with astonished wonder, and when he twitched and cried out, Pippin held his hand and Legolas sang more softly of the fields and streams, the mist lying over the meadows and woods. Frodo slept then, falling into a restful sleep and in those times, a rosy flush washed over his cheeks and he looked again like the Hobbit who had set out all those months ago from Hobbiton.

 

It was such a song that finally brought Sam to a blinking, half-stunned wakefulness. He murmured something incoherent and blinked, rubbing his eyes and the tears that rolled down his cheeks seemed more sorrowful than joyful for he did not realise at first that this was no dream. Then Gandalf had been summoned and laid his hand on Sam's heart and brought him awake. Sam had eventually been able to sit up a little and had gazed at Pippin and then Legolas in amazement and disbelief for a few moments before he had sought out his beloved Frodo and upon seeing him well, the little gardener had sunk back into a deep, restful slumber.

 

Pippin and Legolas had both stared at each other with shining, tear-filled eyes and wept unashamedly. Then Legolas had tried to swing Pippin round in a jog, momentarily forgetting his own dire state and both had been thoroughly scolded first by Gandalf, then Gimli, and finally Aragorn.

 

0o0o0o0oooo

 

After three days slow march, they left Mordor far behind, and passed through Ithilien. Pippin saw that it was a land of climbing woods and swift-falling streams*, and thyme and marjoram, juniper, and wild lavender scented the air. During the frequent stops to let the oxen and horses graze, he felt the knots in his muscles unwind and stretch. And in the days that followed, Frodo was gradually able to sit up and talk, even looking out of the wagon with a faint expression on his face that Pippin could not read. Grass grew thickly, cool and lush and celandines and anemones scattered over the meadows. Buds burst from the slowly rising sap of the great trees and beneath were the green spears and slender stems of woodland bluebells thrusting their way through the warming earth*. The river lay sleepily silver under the pale April sun.

 

On the fifth day since Barad-dûr fell, they were met by a small company of riders who bowed to Aragorn but Pippin was too far away to hear what they said. The company then turned and rode with Aragorn at the head of the returning army and then a little while later, Pippin saw a city of tents spread before them on the banks of the Anduin. The tents were luxurious, made of many colours of silk with banners and flags flying. Glossy-coated horses were tethered nearby and oxen grazed, and it seemed that there were many cooking fires, nothing like the small campfires they had grown used to, but proper cooking fires with meat roasting on spits and barrels rolled out. There were any number of folk bustling between the tents, carrying bundles, chatting, calling to each other, some were shaking out lovely clean white sheets just washed and aired. Pippin thought they looked like the sails of a ship billowing in the wind and there was the savoury aroma of roasting meat and new baked bread that had his mouth watering and tummy rumbling. Pippin wondered if this was the camp of some great lord or King come to greet them.

 

As the wagons and tired horses of the Host trudged and trundled towards the city of tents, those in the camp looked up and stared. A shout went up and then more voices joined them, and the folk in the camp below began to gather and run to greet them. Amongst them, were the Men who had turned away, grateful for a task they could do,* Men who had gone to Osgiliath with the Host and then had stayed behind to defend the last stand before Minas Tirith. Now they welcomed home the heroes who had not turned aside, whose hearts stayed strong, whose faith was in Aragorn, this Ranger from the North who claimed to be the Heir of Isildur. They gathered in their hundreds and the cheers rose, grew until the sound filled the sky, became a continuous roar like the sea. Pippin and Frodo peeped out between the canvas flaps of the covered wagon and saw the crowds of Men, waving and shouting and smiling, looking up at Aragorn as he rode by.

 

Even better, Pippin saw that long tables had been set out and already cooks were bringing meat and drink for the weary Men. For the messengers who had been dispatched to Minas Tirith with news of Sauron's fall, had returned from Minas Tirith, Osgiliath and Ithilien, leading trains of supplies and with them, courtiers and captains, advisors and many men hoping to meet with the new King and make their case.

 

Messages had been brought from the city for the new King, and amongst them, was one who was short for a Man and tall for a Hobbit, with his arm in a sling and glossy curly hair. Merry.

 

How glad the reunion had been! How much they had to tell! They wept and laughed with relief and joy. Pippin was not the only one overwhelmed by the confusion of emotions. And the Hobbits were not the only ones who wept. Pippin saw Gimli rub his eyes with his hand and chew the end of his beard when no one was looking.

 

00o00

 

It was the second day since they arrived. The Hobbits had settled into a rather luxurious tent that had been put aside for their sole use, and was fitted with proper Hobbit-sized furniture that Pippin knew was really Man-child sized, but it did not matter. Gimli had tied back the tent flaps so Frodo could look out across the green sward to the river which lay flat and silver in the sunlight. Pippin was sitting in a rather comfortable chair that he was considering taking back to the Shire with him when all this was finished.

 

Frodo leaned back on the pillows, eyes half closed and drifting, soothed and comforted, for Sam had stirred and awoken a little earlier, enough to see that Frodo was awake with the sweetest smile was on his face. Merry chatted on about Faramir and Eowyn, and Gimli was sitting near the tent entrance but faced in so Pippin could see the crinkles around his brown eyes where he smiled and every now and again, he would break into a deep, rolling laugh that had the Hobbits smiling too. Pippin could hear Legolas singing somewhere not far away and caught a ripple in the trees. Ah, thought Pippin, he is up there then; the Fellowship back together. All safely gathered in...almost. And he felt a little pang...But he would not think about Boromir now. No...the thump of arrows in his flesh, the slow fall to his knees...Pippin shook himself and looked down instead at the smooth pipe that nestled in his hand.

 

Between the three of them, Frodo, Gimli and himself, they had almost finished the last bit of pipeweed, and having discussed its merits and compared it unfavourably to the infinite superiority of Longbottom Leaf, the three of them had decided it was not bad...for Mannish weed.

 

'That cannot be the last of the pipeweed?' Merry said regretfully and Gimli laughed, showing his even white teeth.

 

The Dwarf reached into his tunic to pull out a pouch stuffed with pipeweed. 'All these fawning courtiers will have been fighting and scrambling over each other to purchase the best, the most to impress their new ruler. So it was when Dain arrived at the Mountain.' He ran a finger along the pouch to open it and the rich bitter fragrance filled the air. 'This stuff is too good for Aragorn so I have relieved him of it. We cannot let him get spoiled and soft like some Elf Princeling.'

 

A swallow swooped and sliced the blue sky beyond the tent and Pippin saw that Frodo's eyes wistfully followed the bird as it skimmed low across the grass, and he worried constantly at the bandage around his poor hand.

 

'Do you think you might be strong enough to go outside, Frodo?' Pippin asked softly, and Merry and Gimli ceased their chatter and turned their heads in concern. 'We could put a chair outside, beneath the trees. Just there so we can still see Sam,' he added quickly.

 

Gimli carried the chair that Pippin liked best outside, and set it carefully on the grass beneath a great oak that spread its young pale green leaves over them. Then Merry and Pippin walked on either side of Frodo and gently helped him into the chair.

 

'I am quite well,' Frodo protested, but his voice was strained and he looked anything but. 'It is Sam I worry for.'

 

'Well, he opened his eyes again today and has eaten a little soup, so we should all rejoice,' Pippin said briskly.

 

The sun was warm and the three Hobbits and Dwarf sat companionably in the afternoon, enjoying the pipeweed that even Merry agreed was as good as Longbottom Leaf, or even Hobbiton Gold, which was praise indeed. Pippin was aware of a faint rustling above him like the oaks were whispering to each other. He glanced up to see a flash of pale gold and smiled to himself secretly.

 

Gimli had leaned back against the rough bark, pipe in hand when suddenly an acorn dropped upon the Dwarf's nose.

 

'The squirrels are mighty restless today,' Gimli said loudly and unconcerned to the Hobbits and Pippin looked up and laughed. A larger acorn landed on Gimli's nose and he spluttered irritably.

 

Pippin looked up and laughed. 'Come down, Legolas! Come and sit with us.'

 

He watched Legolas climb slowly from bough to bough and hang for a moment from the lowest branch so Frodo was aware, and then he landed softly before them. Pippin wondered that Legolas seemed to have recovered so quickly after the dreadful effect of the venom. He had seen the way the Elf's veins had seemed purplish and swollen and so sore. And to one who knew Legolas well, he seemed a little less sure of himself, a little less confident perhaps and sometimes his hand trembled.

 

'Legolas and Gimli and me watched over you and Sam while you slept,' Pippin told Frodo and the Hobbit smiled back, and it was a smile, thought Pippin, however wan. 'Legolas sang to you.'

 

The Elf knelt beside the chair in which Frodo sat and smiled at him.

 

'I knew it was you,' Frodo said dreamily, looking down at Legolas where he knelt. 'You made me dream of the Shire and green grass and fields and rivers...all the things I could not remember. Sam tried to...Sam kept trying to remind me of things...but...' He pulled at the bandage on his injured hand and Legolas looked down at it and frowned. Then carefully, with infinite gentleness, he cradled the poor hand in his and at first, Frodo pulled away but then he looked into Legolas' strange green eyes and then trustingly, he gave his hand to Legolas like a blessing.

 

Legolas did nothing, merely held him and Pippin saw there was a tenderness in his face as he looked up at Frodo. There was a burst of birdsong and the oak leaves rustled quietly above and around him, and Pippin felt the rough bark beneath his hands. He heard the slow, deep song of the oak trees, great old hearts and slow, deep roots pushing into the moist earth. Pippin leaned closer for he heard the song of the stream as well, and the woodlands, the fields and rolling hills of home, and the blackbird nearby joined in.

 

When Frodo spoke, it seemed a strange part of the Song and Pippin barely heard him.'I could not remember The Shire,' Frodo said softly. 'I could not remember grass or birdsong, or the smell of rain. I could not recall the sound of the river or sunlight or leaves in Spring...' And when Pippin looked up at last, he saw that the frightened stare had faded and a longing was in his eyes instead.

 

'And here, even though I could see it around me,' Frodo continued in a whisper, 'or hear a blackbird singing, I could not...imagine it or see it once it was gone from my sight.' He swallowed. 'And now I remember The Shire. I remember the green fields and the little streams and brooks, and the woods in Spring full of bluebells.' He closed his eyes briefly and then looked at the Elf kneeling beside him. 'How did you know?'

 

Legolas tilted his head slightly in that way he had and a small smile played about his lips. 'It is your song,' he said very quietly so Pippin had to strain to hear. 'The Ring drowned it so you could not hear it. I have simply helped you to find it again.'

 

Frodo leaned back in the chair and the smile on his pale, starved little face was enough to make Pippin want to weep, and he felt a shift in the air and Gimli dashed something from his eye and muttered something about hayfever and tree pollen.

 

Quite abruptly, in a typically Legolas-way, thought Pippin, the Elf sat back on his heels, tucked his braids behind his ears and then threw himself lengthways on the deep grass, smelling it deeply. He looked up with nothing of the eldritch magic he had just worked on Frodo and said without rancour, 'I see that none of you have abandoned your liking for sitting in fog with Dwarves,' Legolas laughed as he spoke and Pippin could see he did not really mind for his green eyes sparkled with mirth and excitement.

 

'Ah, well the King Returned being very partial to a spot of pipeweed, the messengers coming back from Osgiliath and the city brought small barrels courtesy of the many grateful citizens. There's barrels of it stacked all over according to Gimli. He was most concerned that Aragorn not get spoiled,' Pippin said mischievously. He put a long pipe between his teeth and stuffed the bowl neatly. 'Here, Frodo, have this one and I will do another for myself.'

 

'Anyway, since said King Returned, Lord of the Two Kingdoms, of Anor, Gondor and Anyotherdor is walking around with a soppy expression on his face and a faraway look in his eyes, dreaming of his Elf-maid, he doesn't need this!' Gimli declared cheerfully and blew out a long stream of smoke towards Legolas, who waved his hand in front of his face in an exaggerated way and coughed loudly.

 

'Help me sit up, Pip,' Frodo asked softly and Pippin helped him to pull himself upright but he felt the bones through the light clothes and his heart clenched. No Hobbit should ever be so thin. It was unnatural. Frodo grunted quietly and closed his eyes as Pippin began to lift him.

 

Quickly, Legolas moved to help Pippin and gently pushed his arm beneath the frail Hobbit. As he did so, Pippin caught a look on Legolas' beautiful face that was full of compassion and tender grief. But he was pale too, the shadow of bruises under his eyes and still faint trails under his skin where that dreadful venom had flooded his veins. When Frodo opened his eyes, he frowned and reached out, lightly touched Legolas.

 

'You have been injured too?'

 

Legolas looked startled. 'A little, but that is all gone.' He glanced away and it seemed to Pippin that he shuddered a little. 'We have all been injured, apart from the Dwarf, but that is because he has lurked well out of the way of any battle...ouch!' He ducked but was slower than usual and Gimli caught him a soft clout on the upside of his head.

 

The Elf laughed softly and Pippin thought what a glad sound it was in spite of its softness.

 

'Have they been telling you tall tales of their heroism and great deeds, Frodo? Do not believe any of them or they will have you believe that Gimli led the way through the Paths of the Dead and summoned them himself at the Stone of Erech, and that Pippin harnessed oliphants and besieged Osgiliath himself! But Merry...' Legolas turned and looked down at Merry with pride. 'Merry killed the Witchking of Angmar.'

 

'So I have heard,' Frodo looked at Merry again and Pippin saw his face almost crumple a little.

 

'Sing us a song, Legolas,' he said quickly and Frodo looked up, his face brightening.

 

Legolas tilted his head and looked mischievously at Pippin who grinned. "Shall I sing a song of Gil-Galad?' he asked. 'It is long and very sad...' He glanced at Gimli. 'Now let me see...' He breathed in.

 

'Gil-Galad was an elven king...' he sang brightly, and loudly.

 

Frodo nodded approvingly and whispered to Pippin, 'I have always liked this.'

 

'Um...' said Pippin, who had heard the Mirkwood version.

 

'Of him the harpers sadly sing,' Legolas sang not in the least bit mournfully.

 

'The last whose realm found such bliss,'

 

Suddenly Gimli sat up, listening.

 

'But nowhere could he find to...ouch!' Legolas rubbed his head again, looking annoyed at have been caught out twice now, and by the Dwarf no less!

 

'Sing something else,' Gimli scolded him but Legolas just gave him one of his blinders, as Pippin called the dazzling smile that Legolas flashed at the Dwarf. 'And not that other one either.' Gimli did not say what the other one was, but Pippin thought he might have heard that one too.

 

'Very well, Khazad vuinen,' he said fondly.

 

Frodo laughed but it was such a bright, brittle sound that Pippin felt his eyes sting. 'My dearest Dwarf?' Frodo asked lightly and laughed even more at Gimli's scowl.

 

The song Legolas sang then was something like an old country tune that Pippin thought he remembered from the long summer evenings in the Shire, and the hills were green and rolled endlessly and the little villages and hamlets nestled comfortably and swallows darted across the evening sky, their chattering calls...and then Legolas' song dropped an octave and Pippin thought of the little gardens around Hobbiton, stone walls and roses clambering over them...Legolas' voice was mellow and soft and it seemed all the Hobbits and the Dwarf too felt themselves lulled and soothed.

 

The melody had become sorrowful and Pippin felt somewhere a terrible longing and lingering nostalgia. Gradually they ceased speaking and listened instead, and their thoughts turned to those they loved at home or had lost. Pippin thought of poor Boromir and he guessed from Merry's wistful look that his cousin was thinking of a certain Hobbit maid he had kissed so lightly that evening of Bilbo's party and who might even now, be walking beneath the eaves of the Old Forest with another Hobbit-lad.

 

And Frodo let his eyes drift back towards the tent where lay Sam. Pippin did not know what Gimli was thinking but he had a tender look in his eyes and his hand closed over a small pouch he wore round his neck.

 

Silence had slowly fallen and Pippin looked up as if a spell had been broken. Legolas was gazing into the middle distance a faraway look in his strange green eyes. Pippin wondered what he was thinking about when there was a shrill mewling in the sky and the sunlight caught on white wings. Legolas looked up and squinted against the bright sunlight as if a terrible joy stirred his heart. Pippin glanced towards Gimli, and he saw in the Dwarf's brown eyes such loss. Before he had left the Shire, Pippin had never met an Elf, and now he thought how empty Middle Earth would be when the Elves had left, sailed in their grey boats on the grey sea and left the shores of Middle Earth forever.

 

00o0oo0o0o0

 

Legolas had left the Hobbits and Gimli sitting beneath the oaks, wreathed in pipeweed for he knew his song, and his heart, had turned melancholy. The gulls had been flying upriver and their call drew him now to the water's edge, to the river that stretched sinuously before him, silver and becalmed, and the weight of water pulled it inexorably to the Sea. Willows trailed their long elegant fronds over the surface and flies, newly woken in the Spring, danced on the surface. Great old oaks with steady heartwood hummed their deep song.

 

From the bank, he watched a kingfisher dive, a jeweled dart of turquoise and gold plunging into the slow river. It shot out of the silk water with a glint of silver caught in its beak. After the dust and ash of Mordor, here was the stirring of Spring and the warmth of the earth and burgeoning life emerging from winter slumber. Not since Lothlorien had he sat quietly amongst the trees and green life. And Ithilien was nothing like the magnificent slow time of Lothlorien and its mallorn trees full of awareness and sorrow for its passing. Ithilien was more ordinary and more wonderful in its way.

 

The sounds of the camp faded into background. A green sward stretched upwards towards the grouped pavilions. As he always did near water, he sat on the grass and pulled off his boots, then stood to let his toes sink into the grass and soft mud and then the cold clear water. The little pebbles ground beneath his feet and there was gravelly sand too, that felt rough and good beneath his hard feet.

 

Quickly he unbuckled his belt too, and threw off his much mended moss suede tunic, letting the sun warm him through the thin linen shirt. Then, thinking how silly it was to even be wearing clothes on such a lovely Spring day, he pulled his shirt over his head and then he whipped off his breeches, bundled them up and threw then towards the bank.

 

For a moment he stood naked in the sunlight, letting the warmth pour over him, face tipped up towards the sky and eyes half closed. He let the Song wash through and around him, pour over him like light...The water slid around him, cool against his skin and he waded out a little more until the water slipped over his hips and cooled him so his nipples pebbled in the cold and the little hairs on his body rose, but it was not unpleasant. He ducked himself completely under and emerged sleek as an otter and then pushed off, and swam strongly out into the river but the current was strong and he felt its pull towards the Sea. The tug on his limbs and his heart frightened him a little so he returned to the shallows where he floated a little, thinking.

 

...Elladan had said that Elrohir had been about to choose the way of men...and as he gazed up into the clear blue skies, he found himself feeling utterly bereft as though it had happened and he was left behind to face his loss alone... Fool, he told himself. Elrohir sleeps nearby and you can go to him now if you wish...

 

He wondered why it was that the Way of Men should have any attraction for Elrohir. How could he turn his back on his family and all those he held dear? True, Arwen would choose to follow her husband, and there had been many Men that Elrohir had raised and watched grow old and die...Here, Legolas paused. Aragorn would grow old and die. And Gimli. And the Hobbits. Not for the first time, he thought of their brief span of years, bright as flames, and that he, like a moth, burned himself on the edges of their lives.

 

He let the cold river cradle him, stroke him with its silk coolness, and drifted, gazing up at the rain-washed skies with their ragged white clouds. Above him, somewhere a lark sang, the first he had heard since Osgiliath.

 

He turned and swam closer to the shore where the willows dipped their long branches and brushed the water's edge. He let his feet touch the riverbed, and dug his toes into the deep silt. It felt like velvet beneath his toes.

 

The choice that was given to Elrohir was not his, he thought, watching the small brown trout slip though the ribboned weeds. He could not endure without Elrohir and he resolved then that he would teach Elrohir the way of Elves, that he would make him understand that the Sea's call was for him also. He dreamed of taking Elrohir to Dol Amroth and together they could stand and watch the sea's restless turmoil, listen to the gulls as they flew upriver, trailing the salt spray and smell of the sea in their wake...He was unaware that he had become still, gazing into the smooth water. He stood, remembering the gulls that had trailed mewling after the SeaSong, like a tattered banner. The ship had plunged and risen on the waves, grey-blue water fringed with white surf...

 

'It is quiet yet, son of the forest,' a well-known voice spoke to him from the banks and he lifted his head in surprise. A gleam of white light suddenly shone on the smooth green bank above the rushes and he squinted against it before it coalesced into Gandalf. He blinked and waded towards the shore. His feet sank slightly in the softly silted mud and he smoothed back his hair with both hands, pulling it over his shoulder to squeeze out the water. The water slipped around his hips, holding him for a moment, and he looked down as he waded ashore, the water running off his skin, the painted swirls and spirals wet and gleaming in the sunlight that warmed him as he emerged from the water. He looked up smiling to see Gandalf's lips slightly parted and his eyes keen. For a moment, Legolas saw not the old bent figure of Gandalf but the utterly breathtaking Maiar beneath and he felt himself choke a little at the loveliness of Olórin.

 

'It is quiet now,' the Wizard said, lifting his eyes to follow the River. 'But it will become louder, more insistent. And one day, you will hear nothing else...'

 

Legolas stood beside Gandalf and followed his gaze. 'Do you hear it too?' he asked softly

 

Gandalf sighed and looked away from the river, turning slightly to look beyond Legolas towards the colourful tents and pavilions behind them. 'Yes- it calls me now and I feel it stir my blood. Mavoinë we call it, the Great Longing.' He looked fully into Legolas' eyes then. Again, pure light seemed to pour from Gandalf and Legolas felt a sudden dislocation like the world had tilted slightly. 'It has always been there but quiet, like low tide, but the tide has turned now and my work here is done. Once Aragorn is crowned, I will have finished. Then I can go home...' There was such yearning in his voice that Legolas felt an immense sadness well up in him, for it was how he felt too.

 

'Home...yes,' he said wonderingly, for he had not even considered that Gandalf might feel this longing. 'That is what it feels...like home.' He turned to Gandalf suddenly, for he felt keenly all that he would lose to go into this unknown. Surely the High Elves as they called themselves, would see him and his kind as a rustic and rough folk, like they wrote in their books? They would float about like they did in Imladris and he would struggle with their rules and their stuffy customs and laws. He would suffocate. What would he do if there were no spiders or Orcs to fight?

 

But instead he said, 'Will you be there? When I come?'

 

'Yes.' Gandalf looked at him and it was Gandalf now, blue eyes twinkled playfully as if he knew Legolas' doubts. 'But I will not be Gandalf.'

 

'You will always be Gandalf,' he said with absolute confidence. 'Whatever you look like.'

 

Gandalf laughed softly as though recognising something that he had not known before. 'Yes. I will always be Gandalf...It will fade though.' He touched the Elf's arm, still damp with river water and turned him towards the pavilions. 'And you, Legolas...what will you do if your love does not hear the Sea as you do?'

 

The question hit Legolas with force. It was what he had been considering all this time but submerged somewhere. It was Elladan's point too, and he did not know the answer.

 

'If I were to leave and he not follow...if he were to die here on these shores and I there in Valinor...how could I live? I might go to the Halls of Waiting, if that be true, and he would never come. He might yet choose a different path from mine.'

 

He bowed his head, the heaviness that settled in his chest overwhelmed him and almost he could see the future; himself standing on a distant shore, on a beach where they said there were jewels instead of pebbles. He was shading his eyes with his long hand and gazing far out to Sea, searching for a sail, a ship, but the last one had already come. Nothing...He could see himself sitting near three grassy mounds that were planted with flowers and small tokens, utterly forlorn. The weight in his chest settled further like a stone around a drowning man. He saw himself then, a ghost haunting the doors of the Halls of Waiting and then finally passing through...and nothing then.

 

'Is this my fate?' he cried in sudden despair. 'Indeed the Lady spoke truly when she said my heart would rest no more, but it is not the Sea that is my Enemy!'

 

'You must tell him this,' Gandalf said calmly.

 

'I will...but what if he says he cannot?' What if Elladan is right and he is closer to the Ways of Men, too close?' Legolas hated the note of desperation in his voice, the despair. When had he ever lost his hope, his heart? When had he ever been reduced to such pathos?

 

'Then you will come with me to a place I know where you can forget.'

 

'I do not want to forget!' Legolas declared, miserably, vehemently. He thrust himself away from Gandalf and grabbed at his clothes strewn with such carelessness, and strode up the bank. He found a place amongst the cool willows and threw himself down.

 

He lay on the cooling grass, his arm thrown over his eyes for he no longer basked in the Song, in the deliciousness of the day. A dreadful ache had settled just below his ribs and it felt like all the black threads that had been burned away by Elrohir had bunched together just beneath his heart.

 

'If he does not come with me,' he finally decided, 'I will not leave either.'

 

0o0o0o0o

 

It was evening of the sixth day since Sauron had fallen and the third evening they had been on the Cormallen field. The long rays stroked the grass, lit up the small insects that hovered above the deep grass. In the luxurious tent belonging to Elladan and Elrohir, Legolas lounged carelessly in a low chair and stared at a thin volume in his hands. He was baffled by it. Not because he was untutored in the characters and letters of Gondor, but because what he read made no sense to him. 'On the shadowed hall of the Elven Realm of Mirkwood.' Imrahil had brought it the evening before and handed it to Legolas with a wry smile, suggesting he might like to correct any misconceptions therein. It was the second such volume, the first was entitled On the Laws and Customs of the Elves and had been written by some Noldor scholar unheard of in the Greenwood. It lay open where he had cast it last night.

 

He reached for a glass of wine, deep red, and light shot through it. It had a good mouth, as his father would have said. He dropped his eyes back to the page again.

 

'...Now of old the name of that forest was Greenwood the Great, and once its wide glades and eaves were the haunt of many beasts and of birds of bright song; and there was the realm of King Thranduil under the oak and the beech. But after many years, when well nigh a third of that age of the world had passed, a darkness crept slowly through the wood from the southward, and fear walked there in shadowy glades; fell beasts came hunting, and cruel and evil creatures laid there their snares.

 

'Then the name of the forest was changed and Mirkwood it was called, for the nightshade lay deep there, and few dared to pass through*. And the elves, the Fair folk were driven back and back until even they dwindled and have become a folk of legend, of the dell and glade and only seen in twilight. Save on the nights of the old calendar when it is said the Elven King rides out to catch the souls of the unwary and lure them back to his ...'

 

Legolas snapped the book shut irritably, and cast it upon the floor. He threw his head back and drew his hands through his hair.

 

Grey eyes, soft with love, gazed upon him and the thin parched lips moved slightly to speak his name. 'Legolas...'

 

Legolas lifted his gaze in wonder. Elrohir was awake and gazing at him as if he could not quite believe it either. With a cry, Legolas cast himself on his knees beside Elrohir and took his hands gently between his own. He pressed his lips onto the trembling palm, stroked his fingers over the pale skin and then looked up into Elrohir's grey, uncertain eyes.

 

'You are awake,' he said unnecessarily. He did not care that he was grinning like a fool and his heart was leaping. 'I have been waiting for you...it seems a long time.' He smiled and pushed back a stray tendril of black hair in a gesture of utmost tenderness. 'I almost lost you.' A surge of loss heaved in his chest and he took a breath to still it, to soothe and calm himself. 'I could not bear that.'

 

Elrohir did not speak but gazed up at Legolas like he was starving.

 

'Gandalf turned you back...But I hope you came back for me.' He looked hopefully at Elrohir, noting the shadows beneath his eyes, and the still slightly grey pallor of his skin. The veins still showed slightly but the horrible swelling and bruising had faded. So close, it had been. Elrohir still did not speak and Legolas reached for a cup of clear, cool water and slid his hand beneath the silky head to raise him to drink. Elrohir clasped his own hands around Legolas' around the cup and his palms were still clammy and hot. A horrible memory forced its way through Legolas, of the black threads writhing and wriggling through him. But he pushed it away and focused all his attention, all his love on Elrohir.

 

Elrohir drank greedily and when the cup was drained, Legolas turned and poured more from a glass jug that stood on a table at his side. Elrohir was able to take the cup himself now and as he drank water escaped his mouth and trickled across his throat. Legolas watched it bead on his skin and reached out and wiped it with his finger gently, tenderly.

 

'Rávëyon.'

 

And Elrohir gazed at him with such tenderness it caught his heart and cradled it. 'Beloved.'

 

o0o0o0o0o0

 

tbc.

 

One last chapter to go - really because this one was getting too long. And then, all over.

 

Gimli returned Legolas ot himself in an earlier chapter by smoking.

 

Deep cast or open cast- mining terminology- open cast is a mine in the open ground and deep is underground. Gimli is delighted because Legolas has been listening after all!

 

This is based on, and uses phrases from Tolkien's own description of Ithilien.

 

Aragorn offers all those in the Host a chance to turn aside or stay with him. Many who did not have the heart to fight in Mordor turned aside and took Aragorn up on his offer to let them go and do something they could do. Some of them went to fight in other places or stayed in Osgiliath to repair the town against Mordor should Aragorn fail.

 

Taken from the Silmarillion.

 

Note about chronology: Tolkien has Frodo and Sam awaken on the 8th April. I have taken some liberties because that seems an awful long time.

 

Day 1: 26th March: Leave Mordor.

 

Day 5: 31st March: Arrive in Cormallen. (It took five days for the Host to march from MT to Mordor and they were fresh and had no wounded. On the return the wagons have caught up and are drawn by oxen - slower than horses. They have wounded so will take longer. The Pioneers of the West used to let the ox take rests and graze as they needed. I thought five days was not unreasonable.)

 

Day 6: 1st April: Suitably, Merry arrives.

 

Day 8: 3rd April: Elrohir awakens.

 

Day 14: 8th April: The Feast (and back to the canon timeline).

 

So we have 5 days left to fill before the end of this fic


	46. Submission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NOTE TO READERS WHO HAVE JUST HAD AN ALERT FOR NEW CHAPTER: I missed posting chapter 20 on Ao3!!! How I managed that I just don't know but I had duplicated chapter 22 and missed out chapter 20- which is one of the BEST chapters.
> 
> So- there is another chapter but it's actually chapter 20. Please go and read it- it's quite good:)
> 
> Also- I have two /three chapters of the sequel to this-posting late October.

So finally folks...

This chapter is dedicated to my wonderful beta, Anarithilien. She has contributed so much to this and I cannot thank her enough. It would never have got to this point without her. So much love, dear. Enjoy the small gift- it really is not enough.

Special thanks to Spiced Wine and Melusine in particular for their unfailing support and extra contributions. They helped especially in this last chapter. And for Mienepies for the lovely artwork - which is such a very, very lovely gift.

And final, one last thanks to reviewers, especially those who post regularly and are so encouraging. Please login so I can reply to you. If ffnet do as they promise and strike everything out, I'll not be posting here again. Go over to Faerie or HASA if you want to read new stuff send me an email and I'll send you an alert.

Warning: well...if you've got this far, there's not much point...but some explicit sexual content. m/m.

Chapter 45: Submission

Elrohir sat in a low chair with blankets huddled around him, dozing in the late afternoon sun. Elladan was with Imrahil and Eomer, hunting down the last Orcs in the mountains. Elrohir felt a fool for sitting here like an invalid when he should have joined his brother, but in truth that was what he was. There was still a residue of venom in his veins, like a thin slick of oil that coated everything. In his hand was a tin cup with water in it and he lifted it slowly to his mouth and sipped so coolness soothed his dry and burning throat. It seemed to him suddenly that the green of Ithilien was too bright, too dazzling with the sunlight pouring over the woods and trees, flashing blindingly off the river. There was wine within, and a jug of clear spring water alongside glass goblets and pewter bowls of fruit standing on an oak table near the back of the tent.

It could hardly be called a tent, for the coloured silks hung overhead were luxurious and rich and many heavy woven rugs and tapestries were strewn over sweet smelling rushes and straw so he had something warm and soft beneath his feet.

He did not care about any of it.

The shadows of the Web still caught in his mind, and there was an oily taste in his mouth from the venom. His limbs still trembled a little and he felt starved of air. It panicked him sometimes and he felt his lungs heave and gasp...Before, when it happened, Legolas had been there, spoken gently to him, touched him. The green-gold light had stroked him to sleep and a whisper of song wound through his dreams. But Legolas was not here...Aragorn had summoned him, and so, as always, he had gone.

Instead Elrohir gripped the arm rests and forced himself to slow his breathing, to push away the darkness, the memory of a Ring that burned his hand, a Crown that crushed him, that turned him to the grasping, clutching shadows of long dead kings, of wraiths...No. His Will lifted its own iron hand and crumpled them into dust. You will not haunt me.

He turned his mind then to those dreams where the horizon fractured and became pure light like silver glass. He remembered a shining white presence that had walked alongside him, had stared with him into that distance and considered it. It had been a friend who walked with him, he knew for it lay a shining hand upon his arm and turned him to look back.

His fingers relaxed and let go of the tin cup so the cool water spilled and seeped through the blanket to his skin. He did not stir but stared at the wet patch blankly for a moment.

There had been something more. He felt it just beneath his awareness, like an itch... something else but he could not remember. Just a flash of gold and a face turning towards him and his face was wet. He bowed his head and covered his eyes with his hand, feeling wetness but he did not know if it was tears or the spilled water. The dream figure's face turned towards him. He could not see the features but they were loved, there was a flash of golden hair, like cornsilk, finer, softer...not Legolas. And he felt an overwhelming sense of love that wrapped around him. He had not felt this safe, this loved since he was a child...

A low groan escaped him then. Mother. She knew. She had said as much through her words to Elladan. Forgive your brother, my strong one, for he cannot forgive himself.

He bowed his head in dreadful unrelenting remorse. She had held out her arms to him and he had fled...seeking death rather than her love, her forgiveness... Ah, what kind of man was he?

What kind of man indeed?

On the silver shores, he had chosen to take the way of Men, chosen blessed oblivion. And then the shining presence had turned him back, shown him the Elf in green and brown running desperately along the shoreline after him, calling but never reaching him. The Elf's hair was like winter grass and his feet ran lightly over snow and sand...and Elrohir had suddenly been surrounded by the scents of meadow grass and hay, of cool streams bubbling through the forests...the light was green like it shone through the new leaves of beech trees unfurling in the Spring air...sunlight...

Sudden heat flushed through him and he struggled to free his arms and threw off the blankets that hugged him. He let his head fall back onto the chair and breathed. How wrong he had been, and about so much!

He pushed down on his hands and slowly, painfully levered himself to his feet. He could not stay sitting here, still and thinking. He needed to be doing something, anything! He shoved himself up impatiently and lurched forwards, found himself on his hands and knees, weak and pathetic and sniveling like a whipped hound. He was disgusted with himself.

'Still running?' a voice enquired mildly.

He pushed himself slowly, painfully back onto his heels and glared up at Gandalf. 'What do you know of anything?' he snarled.

Gandalf moved slightly and as he did so, the light shone behind him and for a moment, he became a shining white presence. But then almost immediately he came out of the light and was Gandalf once again..

The Wizard stepped past Elrohir where he knelt still on the floor, angry and frustrated. Unconcerned, he seated himself in the chair occupied by Elrohir only moments ago and arranged his robe comfortably about himself.

'I know that you are afraid of yourself. And so you should be,' Gandalf said without preamble and tapped his fingers impatiently on the arm rest. 'I know you are afraid you have chosen the Way of Men and that it is irrevocable, and so you should be...' The Wizard leaned forwards and he held Elrohir in his sharp, blue gaze. There was nothing old or mortal in those eyes. 'I know you have chosen Legolas and that too, terrifies you. And so it should...Yes...' he said softly, and Elrohir saw how his power glanced through the mortal cloak of flesh. 'There is much to fear in living.'

Elrohir found his mouth full of saliva and fear and swallowed. But he had the blood of Melian in his veins, of Luthien and Galadriel. 'I am not afraid of you.'

Gandalf lifted a shaggy eyebrow as if amused. 'You have nothing to fear from me,' he said firmly. 'But there is much to fear in love.' He pinned Elrohir with his steely gaze. 'You can be hurt when you love. That terrifies you. You fear Legolas' heart is lightly given and thus, lightly he gives it to you.'

Elrohir felt a dreadful lancing pain in his chest and his nails dug into his palms. He knew the reputation of the Mirkwood Elves and their promiscuity. Legolas' attempt to seduce first Elladan and then him aboard the SeaSong, his pursuit of Eomer when Elrohir's own heart had teetered on the brink of love, all compounded into the fear of loving, the fear of hurt, of rejection that he feared perhaps as much as his own guilt.

'It is the way of the Elves of Mirkwood,' said Gandalf softly, with understanding. 'Their ways are different from Imladris perhaps, but Legolas has a loving and generous heart. And he is loyal to those he loves...perhaps to a fault.' The Wizard smiled a little sadly and Elrohir thought of Galadriel's warning to Legolas that he had ignored for Aragorn.

Then Gandalf smiled, and with utmost tenderness his hand cupped Elrohir's cheek, so strongly as to be immovable, but gently too. Light seemed to spark from his fingers but it was a warmth that Elrohir felt, not a burning. There was so much love that Elrohir felt overwhelmed, humbled by his own arrogant defiance of Gandalf, and he looked up into the blue eyes and found compassion.

'You must have hope,' Gandalf smiled and as he spoke, a flame kindled in Elrohir's chest. It was hope indeed.

'Yes.' He found there were tears choking him and he bowed his head humbly. 'I have hope.'

'And trust?'

'Yes...I trust him with my life...' he paused, and looked up at Gandalf, suddenly understanding. 'And I think, with my heart.'

Gandalf nodded as if satisfied and leaned back in the chair. 'The Way is not shut to you until you take it, child. And there is always forgiveness. It is only you who does not forgive.'

Elrohir almost pulled back. Was this an echo of what Elladan had told him their mother bid?

Gandalf paused and stroked his hair gently. 'Such softness...' he mused as if trying to imprint the sensation, the feel in his memory.

0o00o0o0o

When Gandalf had gone and Elrohir was left awaiting Legolas' return, he stood, leaning slightly on a cane he used to steady himself when walking beneath the great oak trees or along the riverbank where the willows trailed their long leaves across the water. It was three days since he had awoken and he looked out of his pavilion at the brightness and green that was Ithilien, cooler now beneath the setting sun.

So he had not made an irrevocable choice, not yet.

Expecting to feel ambiguity, he was surprised at the utter relief he felt instead and laughed wryly. He turned and limped within, reached for the tin cup for he did not dare use the glass goblets left for his and Elladan's use. With a trembling hand, he lifted the heavy jug and poured water into the cup. Water splashed on his hand, its coldness startling him, and he carefully put down the jug, hating his weakness. He drank from the cup deeply, carefully poured another and drank that too. The cold cleared his head a little and he wondered that Gandalf had known so much of him, even his fear that Legolas gave his heart so lightly. Weariness swept over him suddenly and he let himself sink back down into the low chair and closed his eyes in the warm sunlight, he let his head fall against the chair so his long hair streamed back and the lowering sun stroked his skin.

He tilted his head slightly for he knew that his beloved approached. He could sense him before he even heard him...like a scent, the green-gold light danced lightly over the woodland, skimmed over the deep cool grass and wound its way like a merry brook that gushed over wet rocks, through ferny glades over mossy boulders. Elrohir felt his stomach flip and a surge of intensity flooded him. He had no word for it- just an irrepressible joy and anticipation that made him want to shout aloud.

He heard the way the Song waved and moved around him like he waded through a pool. Elrohir paused...he had never thought like that before he had brought Legolas down from the Mountain. That was when he had let his own warmth and healing sink into Legolas' body and wrap its love and desperate adoration round the wounded soul. He had never even considered the Song before that...it had never struck him even as important...and perhaps he had merely deafened himself to it, refused it in his quest for vengeance and fury.

He heard the way the birds sang, filling the air with birdsong as Legolas approached and he knew he did not imagine it, realised that it had ever been thus. In Minas Tirith birds sang whenever the Woodelf was near...and he thought too, that he heard the slow unending cadence of the oaks that listened even as he did, like weeds moving in the slow river. He smiled at himself for his lovesick fancy. The venom was still in his veins - a little. It made him perceive things that were not there, or that he had not realised before, said the healer in him, knowing that a small dose of any poison could indeed heighten the senses and do no harm.

He heard the light steps falter and halt, heard the sudden gasp of breath and the catch in his breath. He imagined the lovely face, green eyes full of delight and lust - oh, he hoped lust too. Then the footsteps hastened towards him and suddenly there was a warmth beside him, a hand on his, fingers closing over his and a warm mouth pressed against his lips and he turned his face towards his blessed, beloved Legolas.

He opened his eyes slightly, for the setting sun shot rays of light through the tent, brushed low over the fields and meadows and glinted off the slow, winding river. The light was still too bright for him, he could barely see for the halo of light around Legolas, turning him to burnished gold.

'Elrohir. Rávëyon.' He said it like it was a prayer. And Elrohir winced.

'No... Not that. I no longer wish to hear you call me that.' He looked away for it evoked all the horror of the Nazgûl, the iron Crown, the Ring. He rubbed his finger, for even now he felt a burning on his skin, though there was no wound.

Legolas stared at him in consternation. 'Very well,' he said but Elrohir could hear a note in his voice of disappointment, perhaps fear. 'Elrohir,' he said more brightly, determined to find nothing for which to reproach Elrohir. 'It is enough that you are here. And it is still so soon.' Legolas knelt beside him and looked anxiously, adoringly up at him. 'But do not think of them, my beloved. They are gone and cannot hurt us now. They have been sucked into the Void and forever locked in that dreadful place.'

But Elrohir felt the slick of venom in his veins. The threads were gone but the poison had drained him utterly and he was so unused to love. He was unsure of himself but Gandalf had told him to hope. He was unused to that also.

'I...I need to tell you...why. I need to tell you.'

But Legolas leaned towards him and that brought his hard, lean body into contact with Elrohir's thigh. 'Hush.' Legolas trailed long fingers down the side of his face, leaned against him, and Elrohir wanted to lose himself in sensation. 'Hush. Whatever you did, whatever I did, is in the past. Forget that. Think only of now.'

'You have no idea what I have done, how...unworthy I am of you. I cannot expect anything of you...'

Legolas put his long finger over Elrohir's lips. 'How can you think yourself unworthy? You have saved me over and over,' he said and his face was close and his long green eyes opaque with desire and love. 'You sacrificed yourself for me, took the Black Web to yourself to spare me.' His breath feathered over Elrohir's cheek. 'I would have followed you. I told you when we stood before the Black Gates that if I fall, and come finally to the white shores of Valinor, I would find you.' He held onto Elrohir's arm as if he thought he might slip away, even now. And Elrohir saw again, as in a waking dream, the Elf in green and brown running, running, calling to him across the flat, gleaming wet sand but could not reach him. 'And if you are not there,' Legolas continued, pressing himself close with melting heat, liquid desire, 'I will search for you, wait for you until the Ending of the World. I will follow you to the furthest shores to be with you. I will search in the halls of Námo just to hear you, to dwell with you, even as a shade.' His lips parted and his pupils were wide and black as he leaned in. Elrohir stared, mesmerized as Legolas pressed his warm, full lips against his.

'I do not deserve...this,' Elrohir said quietly, and turned his head away. He sighed and said sadly, slowly so that Legolas might understand, 'My trespass...is beyond your comprehension. My sins are beyond your imagining. You cannot forgive me.'

'I have already forgiven you.' Legolas touched him then above the heart and drew three fingers across his chest in a benediction that made Elrohir want to weep. 'I am in your debt. Three times you have saved me. It is enough.' He felt Legolas reach out and caress his own pale cheek. 'It is enough,' said Legolas again. This time he cupped Elrohir's head in his hand so he could not turn away. This time he held Elrohir and kissed him deeply.

Fingertips, brushed lightly against his throat so Elrohir shuddered and he felt Legolas smile against his mouth. A tongue pushed forcefully into Elrohir's mouth so he was lost in desire, and clutched at the strong arms that caught him. When he returned the passion, a warm, full mouth pulled him in deeply, bruised his lips. When hands reached beneath Elrohir's thin shirt and stroked him, his flesh bulged, hardened and leapt under Legolas' touch. His long raven black hair was caught up and his head tipped back gently, he looked into a face so pure, so beautiful and strong. The long green eyes so full of love that he thought he might break.

'Forgive yourself, Rávëyon, for I already have,' Legolas leaned over him and kissed him again, more gently.

'I must tell you,' Elrohir clasped Legolas' hand, he felt he might burst if he did not confess, if he did not have Legolas' proper forgiveness with full knowledge of what he had done.

He caught Elrohir in that strange green gaze that was utterly different from the Elves of Imladris. He was very still then, waiting. And then, slowly, as if he already knew, he said, 'Then tell me. And I will still forgive you.'

A caress on his cheek, a stroke over his brow, a lover's caress. And finally, now, cradled in such unyielding love, Elrohir spoke.

'I looked upon my mother's ravishment...' he stuttered and closed his eyes so he could not see the disapproval, the revulsion that must surely come. There was silence, but touches brushed against his eyes, his lips, a caress against his heart. 'I looked upon her ravishment and felt desire.'

The light touch faltered and stilled for a moment. Then slowly, the hand left his face and his heart shrank. He bowed his head. It would come now as he had feared all his life. His vanquishment. The absolute pronouncement of his doom, cast into the void like kinslayers, for was he any better?

'That was not honourable,' the voice of his beloved said. And now the hard, lean body moved away and he felt suddenly cold.

In the long moment of silence, Elrohir could barely breathe. He kept his eyes lowered, waiting. If a sword had struck him down in that moment, he would have welcomed it.

'Tell me.' It seemed that it was Námo himself come from over the sundering Sea to demand his account, to pronounce his doom as he had Feanor.

Elrohir let his head sink further and clenched his fists. A slick oil of pain oozed beneath his ribs from the last vestiges of the venom, like an echo of malice, but he welcomed it. He deserved it.

'I did not know it was her...not at first.' He heard his own voice, a shameful whisper. 'There was an Orc...'

And he was there again, the darkness sliding around him, viscous. Airless, close and humid. He felt suffocated.

...he eased open the heavy barred door. Inside the cell an Orc stood pushing up against a pile of rags and filthy matted hair, a shapeless huddle that whimpered and cried. The dark lust within him raised its head to listen. A pale breast showed through the torn fabric already filthy and stained, ripped into shreds, and he stared, though his sword glinted in the torchlight. The Orc was panting, thrusting itself into the shapeless form which moved, and hands clawed at the Orc. Elrohir held his sword before him and paused…

... He paused, watching the Orc thrusting, its mouth wide in lust and the whimpering form hanging loosely from its grip, pushed against the stone wall. Elrohir felt a horrible kinship, the power of violence, he felt himself swell under the erotic charge. He almost groaned when the Orc suddenly stiffened as it released, and at that moment Elrohir moved as if released from his own spell... The Orc turned suddenly and, seeing the Elf standing there, roared with rage. It dropped the ragged form and turned, dragging its iron sword from the sheath as it turned to confront the intruder. Elrohir simply, elatedly, lustfully slashed the Orc's throat so its blood burbled from the gash and the creature fell to the ground. He wanted to sink his hands into its gorged flesh, to tear its heart from its chest and thrust into it himself. The stink of its release filled the cell, horrible and familiar.

The ragged shape that stank of blood and semen now crawled away from him, mumbling and weeping. Still sunk in the bloodlust and violence of killing, he grasped its hair, thinking at first it was some female Orc or some creature corrupted by darkness and Shadow, for it seemed shriveled and wizened. And then…a long pale hand scrabbled towards the Orc's fallen sword, scrambling to hold it and the rough voice whispered brokenly. He bared his teeth in his rage, his desire for release driving his body, and he dragged her head back intending to…intending to…

Tangled filthy hair dropped around her face…and her eyes, unfocused and bright with defiance and tears had made him see her. His eyes widened in terror and he had nearly pushed her away when he realized the full horror of what he discovered.

…Mother...

'I am worse than any Orc. I should have died over and over.' Shuddering as he always did when he remembered, he wiped his mouth with his hand.

There was a silence. He could not look at Legolas, who was still, absolutely still. Silent. Thoughtful.

'What did you intend?' Legolas asked eventually. Elrohir could not look at him but he heard him shift and push himself to his feet. He knew Legolas stood for a moment looking down at his own bowed head, and then he heard Legolas walk slowly to the other end of the tent.

It was no wonder, Elrohir thought wretchedly. Legolas must despise him, find him an abomination!

There was a clink of glass. He glanced up.

Legolas had paused at the oak table at the other end of the tent, his back to Elrohir. He lifted a glass goblet with steady hands and poured wine. The gurgle of it was the only sound. Moss suede stretched over his wide strong shoulders, leather belt cinched in over his lean hips. Unconscious grace, lean strength, thought Elrohir in despair. How quickly everything had changed. He watched as Legolas drained the goblet, and turned to face him. Red wine stained his mouth.

Legolas stood for a moment looking down at the half emptied goblet, swirling it as if exploring the colours in the wine. Then he pursed his lips and looked up at Elrohir. 'Morgoth seems to have had a vendetta against your House - for his revenge reaches even beyond the Void.' He put the goblet down on the table and sighed. 'You said you dragged her head back, intending...what?' he asked quietly. 'You held back because it was your mother?'

Elrohir did not know how to answer. Legolas poured more wine, lifted the goblet to his mouth and drank. Then he spoke.

'Would you have raped an Orc? A female Orc? It would still be a rape,' he said accusingly. And when Elrohir did not answer he continued, 'Would you have raped a mortal woman? Or an Elf?'

Elrohir gasped. With a cry he struggled to his feet, wanting to flee, but Legolas moved swiftly, striding quickly back to Elrohir, and Elrohir found himself pushed firmly back into the low chair, a strong hand on his chest pressed him down.

'It was not an Orc or a mortal woman! It was my mother!' he cried in anguish.

Legolas looked down at him, and frowned as if perplexed. Then he tilted his head slightly as he did and his wheat-pale hair slid over one shoulder, brushed Elrohir's hot skin. 'It is the rape that is the crime, Elrondion. It is misfortune that it was your mother.'

'Misfortune!' He shoved at Legolas, hard, struggling out of the Woodelf's grasp. But Legolas had always been the stronger, he remembered suddenly the fight at Linhir, the same strong and beautiful face staring down at him, the whispered words...the strange, low hum that reverberated through him...as it did now...snow on mountains...high peaks...an eagle's cry...

Elrohir stared, and fell back against the chair, folded in on himself, hugging his hurt to his own fragile heart.

Then, as if he knew Elrohir's thoughts, Legolas shifted and moved closer, stood over him so Elrohir felt his warmth, smelt the suede and leather of his tunic and belt and boots, smelt below that, the musk and meadow-grass. 'Would you feel this remorse if it had been an Orc? A mortal woman?'

And then he became steel. His generous mouth thinned and he spoke to Elrohir as if he were one of his forest warriors. 'Do not mistake me, Rävéyon, for still I call you thus. It was dishonourable to stand and watch whether she be Elf or mortal or Orc. And it was misfortune that it was your mother. But what was your intent? Would you violated her if it had not been your mother? Would you have killed an Orc, or simply lifted a mortal woman from the dirt and blood and earned all the gratitude of her short mortal life for rescuing her?'

This time, Elrohir was still, the Elf's hand pressed against him. He realised it was above his heart and he felt the thunder in his chest. Legolas called him on the crime of rape...but he had not raped.

No. He had not. But he had hesitated, he had watched long enough. The question burned him; what was his intent? He stared at the blazing shadow that stood over him.

...The ragged shape that stank of blood and semen now crawled away from him, mumbling and weeping. Still sunk in the bloodlust and violence of killing, he grasped its hair, thinking at first it was some female Orc or some creature corrupted by darkness and Shadow for it seemed shriveled and wizened. And then…a long pale hand scrabbled towards the Orc's fallen sword, scrambling to hold it and the rough voice whispered brokenly. He bared his teeth in his rage, and he dragged her head back intending to…intending to…

...to cut the throat of the creature of shadow, the abomination, that had rutted with the one that lay dead at his feet. To drink her blood if it helped him to find his mother...

Like blessed rain in a dry desert, he felt the relief. He was guilty, but not of what he believed himself to be. He spoke, slowly, haltingly. 'I did not rape...For a moment in the heat of my blood, I...watched for a moment,' he realised, felt the truth of it in his bones. 'I pulled her head back, to kill another Orc in hatred of their capture of my mother.'

He felt the tension in Legolas and the pressure on his chest eased. Elrohir breathed deeply like he had been starved of the clean air, filled himself with the scent of meadow grass, let himself think of the clear forest stream...but Legolas had not finished. He kept his hand steady on Elrohir, holding him in place.

'Yes.' Breath stirred his hair. 'But there is more...You still hesitated. You watched.' He was unrelenting. 'You enjoyed what you saw.'

And now, the second blade pierced him more thoroughly than any sword. 'You have dreamed of violence,' Legolas continued.

The moment of shock obliterated all else and numbed Elrohir. Shame flooded him, hot, cringing, unbearable and his head sunk to his chest. Legolas held him still, warmth from his hand over Elrohir's heart.

'Have you not tarried in the shadow of Dol Guldur? I thought you had*. Did you not have other dreams? Did you not dream of me?' Legolas caught him now in his hard gaze, like green ice.

Did you not dream of me? Ah, Elrohir felt his heart shrivel and he wished now he had not been turned back from the white shores, away from the sea of silver glass where he could find oblivion...For here was the confrontation of everything, each of his sins, his transgressions, taken out and studied... Indeed, he had dreamed of Legolas...Here was the reckoning.

...Fire and flames rimmed the darkness and in the hellish glow he saw the promise that burned; the red glow on the Elf's skin, bound, struggling, naked, helpless, subdued…ah, no. Not quite. He thought of the flames reflecting in the Elf's eyes and knew that Legolas would glare back defiantly, his generous mouth snarling in disgust. Elrohir saw the bloody smear where he had hit him already across the mouth. His hand drifted lower and stroked across the welts he had already left on Legolas' skin so there was more blood. He trailed his fingers through the blood, through the swirling painted yára-carmë of the Elf's skin…and gripped him hard, his lean hips, dragging him forwards. And then with a sudden thrust, he impaled his victim helplessly on the spear of flesh so it tore into the captive Elf, tangled his fingers in the wheat-pale hair and dragged his head back, muffled the cries with his own mouth.

'You dreamed of my torment...The Nazgûl showed me. And you spoke of this in Osgiliath. You asked me, what if I had not been willing? You called me Yôzâira. I do not know what that means.'

Elrohir's heart pounded beneath Legolas' hand and he felt light-headed. Gift of Longing. That was what it meant...How could he speak of this; his hubris in believing that he could trick the Nazgûl, his secret desires, secret violence? How could he tell Legolas that he thought to lure the Nazgûl to the Mountain but they taunted him with his failure? That Sauron had used his own dark lust against him and almost conquered him?

And the words, like shades, or wraiths, escaped the Void like vapour, and insinuated into his own thoughts like the Nazgûl that had spoken them...and he was plunged back into the storm on the cold mountainside, with the black riders striding through the rain, gleaming wet swords lifted before them...

How is it you are so undone by this Elf when you have starved yourself in contrition all these long years? Your Yôzâira. You deny your own violent nature. Do you think Death will be enough to purge you? Nothing will ever be enough.

Elrohir cried out and covered his eyes with his hands. No, nothing could ever be enough! Nothing could ever purge him! Elrohir heard a sound that seemed to come from the Earth itself and knew it was the depths of his own damnation.

'I have dreamed of you.' He admitted and bowed his head in shame.

There was a slide of cool, long pale hair and a strong hand cupped his face, lifted him up. Barely able to look, trembling, he looked upon the face of his beloved, his doom, and expecting retribution, he found only love. In the clear green eyes, he found only compassion and strange understanding.

Legolas brushed against him, suede and meadow grass. 'Do not imagine you are alone in your secret desires, that none other knows such regret and guilt. Do you think anyone can live long years in the forest, fight within reach of Dol Guldur and be not touched by Shadow.' Legolas paused, then he turned his head slightly and looked away. 'I have seen the darkness in men's souls.'

He stood so close now, his thigh level with Elrohir's shoulder, his eyes half-closed and looking down. The sun had sunk lower and red light glowed and reflected off the silks of the tent.

'When my Lord King ordered us to march upon Erebor, do you think we would have...hesitated, had he ordered us to fall upon Dain's army and baste ourselves in the blood of the Khazad?' Air crackled between them and Elrohir opened his mouth, aghast. Legolas paused and his hand stroked once across Elrohir's hair, almost unaware. 'Gimli was there that day.' Legolas spoke in a low voice, thoughtful, intimate. Almost curious. 'He fought in that battle alongside my folk, against Goblins and Wargs though he... I, knew it not.' He let his fingers brush Elrohir's cheek, sifted now through his long black hair as he spoke and he seemed to Elrohir no longer the Legolas whom he loved with all his being, but some otherworldly thing from some strange place of legend, and he thought of all the warnings he had ever heard of the silvan Elves of Mirkwood, their fey wildness, their savagery, not of the High Elves, not quite of the Sindar either.

His fingers caught the long silk of Elrohir's hair and tightened suddenly. 'I have endured months of Isildur's Bane.' He leaned down towards Elrohir, close so his breath stroked Elrohir's skin. 'Can you think what it whispered to me? Can you imagine what it promised me? Do you know what I thought I might do?'

Elrohir smelled him, musky and aroused. Suddenly the air felt too close, darkness folded him.

'I have known the Ring and Its whisperings. It told me to do...dreadful things...made me want things I did not know I wanted...'

Legolas shifted slightly so he stood before Elrohir and Elrohir, almost mesmerized, had no choice but to look up. The scent of the leather and suede and musk overwhelmed him then and he stared up at the tall Elf, shadows crowded round him. He looked up into the bright, piercing eyes that seemed in that moment to strip him to the bone; he, Elrohir Rävéyon, of the line of Luthien and Galadriel, of Finwë long gone and naught but bones and the long lament of the Noldor.

There was a slither of leather falling to the ground and the slip of silk.

Elrohir gasped for the moss suede tunic and silk shirt were pooled on the floor, cast carelessly away and Legolas stood half naked before him. He stared at the Elf warrior, long wheat-pale hair sliding over his naked shoulders, yára-carmë gleaming silkily on his warm skin, and Elrohir imagined for a moment those strong hands bound, and the body writhing in torment and he found he could not bear the idea of Legolas in any pain, ever. And he hated himself for those dreadful thoughts.

'I know what is in your mind,' Legolas murmured and he leaned over Elrohir, placed his strong hands on the armrests on either side of Elrohir so he could smell his skin, his musk and that indefinable sweetness that was Legolas. 'Do you still dream of me? Do you still see the flames, my skin painted with blood and fire? Do you still seek to assuage your own pain with mine?'

At first, Elrohir could not speak. He stared at the lean, wiry form, broad archer's shoulders, muscles, smooth skin painted and the swirls and delicate angles and wild colours. The dragon's eye glinted at him, coyly, and seemed to move and shimmer. Long, long pale hair swept down over one shoulder and the Elf lifted one hand and caught Elrohir's face, held him still so he had to look up into the lovely face, upon the full, parted lips.

Elrohir shook his head. 'No...I would die first.' He was fixed by the green of the Woodelf's eyes that were like beech leaves unfurling in the Spring, that were grey like the forest stream over slate and granite, wet pebbles and cold, clear water. He wanted to bow down and humble himself, reduce himself to the unworthy slave he was. 'I will die first,' he said again.

Slowly, he felt long fingers smooth his hair, touch his face, his lips, smooth the frown between his eyes. There was a low humming that reverberated so deeply, he could barely hear it at first and it grew...he heard the cry of eagles high above the snow peaked mountains, his song...

'I cannot imagine how you have lived with this all your long life.' The sudden compassion in Legolas' voice was unbearable. 'How lonely you have been. How afraid...

'You have saved my life three times now, Rávëyon. Three times. In Minas Tirith when the Nazgûl had me entranced. Then upon the Mountain you fought them off - though I know you brought them down to the Mountain too.' His eyes were narrowed. 'You sought to lure them to you, I know that now. And then you took the Black Web to yourself and that was the fullest sacrifice. You have atoned.'

A lazy smile and Legolas tilted his head. 'But you will submit to me,' he said.

Elrohir's eyes widened at all that it implied and found Legolas' hand rested over his heart. The other hand lifted Elrohir's long hair away from his rounded ear and the Woodelf bent to lick the rim so a delicious shudder went through him.

'Yes.' Legolas tilted his head slightly to one side, 'I have never had one so bright and fiery as you. You will submit to me. I want that from you. But you will not bow.'

Elrohir pulled back but found his own hair still caught in the strong archer's fingers and he could not move away. Not taking his eyes from Elrohir's, Legolas sank to his knees, between Elrohir's thighs. He pushed his hard body between Elrohir's thighs so his belly pressed against Elrohir's groin so he thought he might burst into flames.

'You will submit to me,' Legolas said again and pressed his warm lips against Elrohir's mouth, closing his eyes and kissed him deeply. He felt Legolas' fingers press him into his arms bruisingly, and he winced for his skin was still sore and his veins swollen but Legolas made no attempt to be gentle. Fingers tangled in his hair, tugged on his scalp and his head was wrenched back. Legolas kissed him hard so their teeth clashed and the Woodelf didn't seem to care. He pushed his tongue into Elrohir's mouth, so lost in passion that Elrohir could barely breathe.

Legolas broke off for a moment, looked at Elrohir through half closed eyes. 'Submit to me Rávëyon. Give yourself utterly. It will be enough.'

Then he leaned down to lick slowly against Elrohir's lips. The warmth sent a jolt through him, from mouth to belly and loins, like lightning. His chest heaved and he felt a sweep of lust and desire mingle with a soaring emotion that swelled in his chest until he thought he might burst.

He closed his eyes and said, 'Yes.'

'You love me.' It was a statement. Legolas thrust his hand beneath Elrohir's tunic and grasped his bulging, hot flesh firmly, sweeping his thumb up and down the bursting, throbbing length of him. Elrohir threw his head back in ecstasy.

'...Yes...' he managed to gasp.

'Mithrandir called you back,' Legolas murmured, close now, and his breath ghosted over Elrohir's ear so he cried out. 'But you came back for me.'

Elrohir licked his lips but found Legolas already there and he was kissed again, so deeply he could barely breathe. And then Legolas stroked a calloused hand up and down so a surge of desire thrust its way through Elrohir's balls and cock and belly. He was stroked again and he shuddered and grasped Legolas' hand, writhed upon a spike of lust and ecstasy.

'Yes. I came back. For you.'

'You will stay for me too.' It was a statement not a question.

Legolas lowered his head and swashed his tongue where his hands had been and Elrohir grasped his head. But it was so fleeting and Legolas lifted his head and kissed Elrohir hard on his mouth so he tasted his own sweat and heat.

Legolas suddenly pulled away and pushed himself back up to his feet. He stood before Elrohir now in nothing but breeches and boots. The dragon curled and slid over his muscled hard chest, writhed around his lean flat belly and disappeared into the breeches to slide round his thigh... Elrohir remembered...and he felt himself gasp with shameful desire. Legolas fumbled at the laces of his own breeches and pulled them loose. His hard, needy cock sprang free.

Legolas leaned forwards so Elrohir could smell the salty musk.

'Submit to me.' The words murmured again in his ear and warm breath brushed against his skin. Elrohir looked up into the beloved face, sea-green eyes and the spike of lust again pierced him through.

'Yes.' He bowed his head, wanting.

Legolas breathed and half closed his eyes as if in agony. He caught Elrohir's hands in his and took a step back, bringing Elrohir forwards. Slowly, weakly, Elrohir knelt in submission, surrendered.

He took Legolas' hard erection into his mouth. There was a light taste of salt on the skin. Like the Sea. He glanced up to see Legolas' head thrown back and his lips parted in ecstasy. Elrohir swirled his tongue once and there was a pulse, thick release spurted, broke upon him like a wave and he thought he heard the gulls cry.

00o0o0o0

Legolas was still standing before him, but his head was bowed in satiation, hips jerking slightly still, eyes half closed and his hand over Elrohir's head like a benediction. Suddenly he tensed and looked towards the tent opening. He suddenly smiled, blindingly, and whispered, 'Shall we announce ourselves?'

Elrohir stared, puzzled and then he heard them too.

Legolas stuffed himself back into his breeches, and Elrohir felt the world tilt in sudden dislocation. Too different. Too quickly. Too mercurial. Legolas glanced at him as if he could read his thoughts and lifted an eyebrow in wry imitation. Then he laughed loudly, heartily. 'We are even after that!' he said grinning, reminding Elrohir of how he had left Legolas wanting in Osgiliath. But he knew it was not a punishment. Legolas wiped his hand quickly on his own breeches, snatched up his shirt and dragged it on.

'...he is not being very patient,' came a voice beyond the tent. 'He will keep trying to get up and move about when he should still be resting.'

'Aragorn,' said Legolas smugly with a quick look at Elrohir. 'Come to tell you off and tuck you in, nice and tight.'

Another voice rumbled outside. 'Aye, it will make the venom stir in his veins again.'

'Nana Gimli,' Legolas said, smiling even more widely. 'Come to check that naughty little elflings are in bed at bedtime.' He caressed Elrohir's cheek for he knelt still before Legolas as if worshipping. 'He will insist he stays with me to make sure you do nothing that will exert me or pain me. I fear he cares for you not at all!'

Elrohir, still stunned, penitent, rocked back on his heels, prepared to do as Legolas bid but the Elf had already stepped away, and stood now, calm and serene, immaculate, as if nothing had ever happened.

There was a scuff of boots outside the tent and both Elves turned to look.

Aragorn entered and he merely glanced at Elrohir kneeling on the floor, eyes stunned and wide still. The Man's eyes went straight to Legolas.

'We have news,' he said. 'I thought you would want to hear it.'

00o0o0

Legolas had climbed to the top of a tall tree and was leaning on its trunk, cradled in its boughs and gazing North as if he could just see the edge of the forest and Home. Aragorn had told him the little news he had; that there had been a tremendous battle in the forest and that Celeborn and Thranduil had met beneath the eaves of the Wood. They had parted ways then and the messages from the Golden Wood told that battle still raged in the Northern parts whence the goblins and Orcs of Dol Guldur had fled, wreaking revenge on the Woodelves. He thought if he looked hard enough he could see the smoke rising up from the Northern forest. He wondered how long it would take him if just took Arod now and rode for home.

He remembered Orthanc, the yellow and sulfurous smoke, figures running, a glint of steel, the screaming from the woods, Orcs pouring through the trees, black silhouettes against the infernal backdrop of the burning forest. The stench of death, of burning meat. The unmistakable sound of a terrified horse screaming somewhere not far away.

'You should see what they have done in Mirkwood. You have abandoned her and now Orcs rape the children of your dead warriors.' Saruman's Voice twisted and slithered over him even now, wrenching his heart.*

He knew that Elrohir would have wanted to follow him, to comfort him, but their love was still young and tender and he did not know if he wanted Elrohir to see him like this. It was too raw.

Gimli was below. He heard him arrive a little while ago but he did not wish to speak, not yet. But when the tendrils of pipe smoke drifted up to him, he closed his eyes and leaned his head against the trunk.

'You have news also?' he said, knowing the Dwarf would hear, for he did indeed have ears like a bat when he wished.

'Aye.'

'Your father?'

'From the little I hear, he is alive and that is as much as I can hope for.'

A late evening swallow whizzed overhead, scooting up from the South and her high chattering call was answered from somewhere by another. There. They swooped and scissored the deepening blue sky. The leaves were green and cool, there was the smell of Spring and sap rising.

'I am glad,' he called down, and he was.

'And your father too is well.'

'Yes.'

'I am glad too.'

There was a pause and he heard Gimli sigh and settle. 'Nothing Saruman told us was true then,' the Dwarf said softly. 'It was almost a month ago we were in Orthanc listening to that snake's lies.' He snorted softly. 'Do not let him stretch his dead white hand here, Legolas. Do not let your heart tremble at the thoughts he seeded there. Saruman is safely guarded by Fangorn and I for one am glad he is stuck there to live out the rest of his miserable life.'

Legolas breathed out slowly. Gimli was right. It was the full moon last that they rode in the cold night through the sentinel huorns and Ents, such marvels he had only ever heard of in the old songs. And his father had met with Celeborn after then. How could Saruman have shown him the truth? He shook his head at himself for his foolishness.

'Ah, we are far from home, you and I, Legolas,' Gimli said gruffly. 'It makes us fools and our hearts too easily moved.'

Legolas smiled slightly and he let the slow Song wind about him then instead. How could he grow to love so much a Dwarf? he wondered for the thousandth time. But he did. For Gimli was Earth and Fire where he himself was Air and Fire. Gimli's Fire was different though; It was a crafting, making fire...not the fire of life, of Nature. It was molten stone, it was liquid fire like a river of gold from the Mountain. It was a fire that eased a crease in iron like it was silk or linen. A voice of gravel, of a river running over gravel...Its warmth was like a hearth or forge.

'Belâsen,'he whispered so it fluttered in the new leaves of the oak and threaded down on the drifts of air, smoothed the Dwarf's glossy hair and beard and floated in his breath.

00o0o0o0

He stayed in the branches of the great oak tree all night, watching the stars wheel slowly overhead. Eärendil rode high with the moon and again he wondered if Elrohir believed it really was his ancestor up there in Vingilot or if he thought it was just a tale told by his father, needing to believe his own father had not quite deserted them. And finally, he turned his thoughts to Elrohir and his sad tale. The Noldor were so strange but he knew also that he could as soon give up loving Elrohir as give up breathing or longing now for the Sea... He found himself half hard at the mere thought of Elrohir and the lingering sensation of ecstasy, for he had not even pleasured himself, certainly not been with another, since he had parted from Eomer...but that was gone now. There was only Elrohir...it felt now like everything else, everyone else had only ever been a rehearsal for Elrohir.

He listened to the metallic chimes of stars dim and the opening chord of sunrise, faintly at first and growing until the first chink of yellow light appeared far off in the East...Harad lay that way he knew. The hot sand under his feet, the hot wind blowing across empty heat-stunned deserts...a flicker of something dwindled in him, like a vague memory that is fleeting and then gone... He did not snatch at it as it left him...

The first sunlight peeped across the still and sleeping land of Ithilien and the first bird awoke, fluted quietly and then as the sun rose over the far horizon, the blackbird sang its liquid, fluid notes.

Legolas felt the oak stir under the sun's light, and new leaves unfurl a little more. He loved the oak trees but loved the beeches of the North still more. Far off, there was a flash of sliver and a cry reached him on the wind...the gulls were flying downriver to the Sea...

He followed them with his gaze, green as the deepness of the Sea.

0o0o0

It was Gimli who brought him down from the trees, calling him so his dream-filled eyes turned downwards and slowly focused on the Dwarf. He descended the oak tree without realising it and the warm, square hand lay on his arm and gently steered him to where Frodo, Pippin and Merry gathered around Sam for he had awoken fully and was sitting up and smiling.

There was to be a feast later in the afternoon to celebrate the Hobbit's awakening, and already the camp was astir. Legolas watched but did little. His thoughts were slow like the river and he clung to the Fellowship while his thoughts dwelled on Elrohir, Home, the Sea...

There was a small vase of wildflowers next to Sam's bed. Legolas had gathered those himself a few days before, wanting to bring some pleasure to Sam and knew the little gardener would like that. But he had needed to be helped by Pippin to arrange them in a small vase, for his fingers were still a little clumsy then and slow from the poison that had filled his veins. When he knocked over the vase and water flooded everywhere, he had raised his hand to cover his eyes in despair and misery for the gulls were calling and he could not shut them out, no matter how hard he tried. The sight of the spilled water caught and gleamed in the sunlight like the little waves on the river...and if they were curious, the Hobbits did not speak of it for he was not the only one whose soul was wounded.

Now Sam and Frodo were sitting out on the cool grass on the riverbank and smoking pipeweed. Merry was telling them all the news in Minas Tirith, and Pippin, being the most hale and untouched, wandered off in search of the cooking he could smell and to find out when the feast would start for no food was laid out. When he returned empty handed he told them it was because everyone was busy preparing the feast.

'Why is there a feast today?' Pippin whined. 'They've had all these days to have one and why now?'

Merry scowled at him and nudged him hard. 'Because Sam was not awake,' he scolded and Pippin hung his head ashamed. 'Gandalf said he would fetch us when they are ready for us.'

Legolas lay on the riverbank and trailed his hand in the water like the long whips of willow leaves and watched the gleam of sunlight on the water.

'This reminds me of the days when we first left Imladris...' Gimli said and smiled. 'Pippin was always saying he was hungry and asking Aragorn when was second breakfast. It was the first time I had heard of it.' He tapped out his pipe and showed his even white teeth. 'Merry was just as bad.' He grinned as Merry poked him.

'What a long way we have come.' Frodo looked softly at his friends and then at Sam. Sam was watching the flowers nod on their long stems, a white petal floated on the water.

00o0o0

Elrohir leaned carefully against the back of his chair that had been so precisely placed on a high bank for him so that he might watch the ceremony. Above him, the three great banners of Rohan, Dol Amroth and the black banner with the white tree and seven stars flowed on the wind that came up from the West, like a blessing.

On the field of Cormallen before him, the Host was drawing up its companies and ranks, mail and weapons glittering in the sun. He could hear the shouts of their respective commanders' orders competing with each other as different companies were drawn up. Their various pennants and banners streamed and snapped, azure and sable and argent, crimson and gold. There were so many he could not recognise them and did not care to. The Captains of the Host stood near a dais that had been raised and upon it were three high seats built of green turves. The lords and captains talked amongst themselves excitedly, loudly, above the general hubbub of the gathering Host. Knights in bright mail and tall guards in silver and black began to assemble below the green bank, and amongst them a herald with a long silver trumpet stood nervously and glanced down the long verdant sward that led down to the river. Elrohir watched half-interestedly as Aragorn climbed to the middle throne and seated himself carefully. He stood again to swish his cloak out of the way and settled again. He was fidgeting, thought Elrohir, and knew he was nervous.

He felt a pang of loss for he was too far away now to help Aragorn or soothe him. Instead he turned away and stared back over the crowds. The pageantry was empty for him, meaningless. It was too noisy and crowded, and he wished he had been spared, but Aragorn had insisted, for this was to honour the Hobbits.

Lounging in his chair, impassive and steely, Elrohir was aware of his effect on the gathered soldiers and courters alike, the impression of physical power sheathed in casual elegance. None approached him. None guessed the darkness of his thoughts. As he intended. He stared impassively across the crowds for his chair had been set high, and he could view across the crowded grass.

Elladan stood nearby, Elrohir felt his brother's blue calm was unsettled and turned his head to see what had stirred Elladan so. Seeing Imrahil standing close, leaning his head towards Elladan and smiling at something he said, Elrohir smiled to himself and glanced sideways at his sweet-natured brother. Now Elladan leaned slightly towards Imrahil and Imrahil was talking animatedly, his blue eyes soft, and a smile curved his full lips.

Elrohir leaned his head back on the chair in which he sat. He thought Elladan was almost unaware how Imrahil felt or of the Man's hopes. Perhaps he was not unaware, Elrohir amended, but struggling to see that this was beyond mere liking or friendship. Elrohir could feel the way the blue depths of his brother were stirred and deepened, the pouring of his desire like the heaviness of a waterfall.

There was the smell of the grass bruised and broken beneath so many feet, and the warmer, moister scent of the mud beneath. He breathed it in, for it reminded him of Legolas.

Suddenly there was too much noise, too many Men. Elrohir wished Legolas were there. He had not seen him since Aragorn had broken in upon them with the news that he had received messages from Lothlorien, that Celeborn had met with Thranduil beneath the leaves of Mirkwood and they had cast down the Tower... Legolas had disappeared and Elrohir knew he had not been wanted then...He had longed to comfort Legolas but perhaps it was too soon, and their love too young and tender, and he had revealed so much of himself only moments before.

Later he had looked for Legolas, knowing he would be amongst the great oak trees, that he would be watching the stars wheel in the empty skies. It was strange to feel the longing in Legolas' heart, and hear the Song of green and gold, of sunlight through the beech leaves and the cold grey stream plunging between the ferny glades and dells. Elrohir had found him but not approached, merely stood nearby, deep in the shadows when Gimli had coaxed Legolas down and taken him to the warm and unquestioning Fellowship of the Hobbits. Later he heard Legolas' song down by the river but when he limped close, his broken and wounded body leaning on that stick, he had heard the voices of the Hobbits and Gimli, and had retreated again, like a shade in the sunlight.

So he had stayed hidden away, cloaked in his love and shame. But the memory of Legolas' love, his forgiveness and acceptance, of his own acquiescence and submission, bathed him in warmth and love. He felt a softness in him that had not been there before, like some hard and frozen part of him had unfurled like a new leaf, and fragile, was seeking the sun's warmth.

Movement caught his eye then and he looked across to where Aragorn sat upon the green throne. He stared for a moment and a memory of a bright-eyed lad with tangled hair struggling with a sword too heavy for him, struck him with almost physical force. But the boy, Estel, had long gone and instead there was a mail-clad man on a throne. Anduril was laid across his knees but he had laid his helm aside. So high and glad of face he was, thought Elrohir sadly. Kingly, he was a lord of Men now, dark-haired with eyes of grey.

Elrohir had a sudden flash: The dark hair was silver, and that kingly face was lined and aged and the eyes dimmed, the light gone. Anduril would lie on his breast and Arwen, veiled against her own desperate grief, clung to his cold hand...Elrohir saw himself turn her then, lift her up and guide her through the deserted and grieving mallorns of Lothlorien...and then he waited while she slowly, deeply made her Choice...A faint light hovered and closed upon her. For a moment it seemed the glade blazed with light and there was a scent of earth after the rain, it reminded him sharply of Aragorn. Then suddenly, all the light seemed to leave and he was left, bereft...

He gasped and the world tilted. He leaned forwards and was caught by Elladan, who looked at him gravely.

'You should not have come,' Elladan admonished him but Elrohir closed his eyes and breathed slowly. The physical sensation would pass. But the grief, ah, the grief... How could he endure it? His fingers clutched Elladan's sleeve. 'What did you see?' his brother whispered.

'The end of...this.' He gestured to the pomp and ceremony, to the throne upon which their beloved Estel now sat and Elladan met his eyes and nodded thoughtfully.

'I have seen that too...And more.'

Elrohir lifted his head to meet his brother's grey, serious eyes. Elladan moved his head slightly and a softness and sorrow was on his face. 'Aye, I have seen the last ship sail. And those who choose to stay.'

Elrohir felt his heart clench and dreadful grief strike him to his core. 'Legolas...' he began.

'Legolas will take the last ship when Aragorn's time...' Elladan's voice faltered then and he did not finish. 'Let us not speak of this now, brother.' There was a pleading in his voice that Elrohir had not heard before. But he would not think of that now. Not with all that was ahead of him, and behind him. There was only one reason now for him to choose the Way of Men, and that was if Legolas was not in his life.

He was aware of Elladan's love, his protection. Like a cloak, the blue calm was deep midnight, warm. It wrapped him in its tender love. He felt the peace and wondered fleetingly that it may not be he who stayed.

A peal of trumpet notes blasted into the air abruptly dragging him back to the present. A flurry of trumpets and horns sounded triumphantly, and the voices of thousands of Men lifted:

'Long live the Halflings! Praise them with great praise!

Praise them with great praise, Frodo and Samwise!*'

In the long aisle that had been left through the throng, leading to the green dais, two small figures appeared, hesitant, red-faced and eyes shining with wonder. Frodo and Sam, and behind them, Gandalf whose form trembled with light. Elrohir could still not see Legolas but Gimli followed the Hobbits as they made their way up the green sward.

And then, his heart leapt and banged against his chest, Legolas. His long, easy stride took him to the Hobbits' side. He was beautiful, thought Elrohir and he could not stop staring. Legolas stood for a moment, framed in the sunlight that streamed in from the West and he turned his lovely, sculpted face towards the sun and it seemed to Elrohir that the sun itself was half in love, for the light poured onto him, turned him golden, caressed him with its warmth, turned his long hair molten. And when he turned, his smile was the sweetest Elrohir had ever seen.

Did he imagine an intake of breath from the Men gathered with him or was it just his own deep infatuation, his absolute adoration? Because that was the only way he could describe how he felt upon seeing Legolas. His skin tingled and yearned for his touch and his blood thrummed and heart thumped in his chest.

'Close your mouth, besotted fool! You are staring.' Elladan said fondly.

Elrohir glanced at his brother but caught a glimpse too of Imrahil, standing close by and he watched Elladan in the way that Elrohir himself watched Legolas. And at that moment,

Legolas turned his head, scanning the faces of the crowds and suddenly caught sight of Elrohir. The moment their gaze touched, everything changed...Elrohir felt plunged into a furnace of passion, ignited, flaming desire pierced him, from his loins to his heart as if lightning had shot through him. He knew he gasped because he saw out of the corner of his eye, that Elladan had turned towards him in concern.

A slow smile spread across the Woodelf's full, sculpted lips. And it dazzled him, all Elrohir could think of was the generous and lovely curve of his mouth, his long, long hair and the way he tilted his head slightly so it fell like a long veil over one shoulder. He remembered the swirls and abstracts painted on the smooth skin, that his muscles rippled beneath Elrohir's hand and the dragon had peered with golden eyes, knowingly. He remembered too, with chill fear, how the green-gold threads of light had shimmered and hovered, like fireflies over Legolas' cold and abandoned body on the bleak mountain side, and how he felt he would die if Legolas did not return. He remembered how the black threads had suffocated the green-gold and how Elrohir had reached in and taken the darkness like it was a cloak and drawn it to himself. He remembered seeing Legolas pierced by the arrow back at Pelargir and he thought him lost even though they had fought only days before. He had spent his convalescence taking out each memory of Legolas, looking at it this way and that, and he knew, without any doubt, that his heart and his soul belonged to Legolas. He would not wait any longer. He pushed his chair out and struggled a little to his feet. Elladan looked up in surprise and caught this arm.

'Be still, Elrohir. You are not strong enough yet.'

Elrohir paused unsteadily for it was a little true. Then he said, 'Leave me be, Elladan. You have no idea what I can still do.' He softened. 'You have your own heart to care for, and I have mine.' He closed his hand over Elladan's, and slanted his eyes towards Imrahil.

Elladan's lips parted slightly in astonishment and Elrohir took advantage of his surprise and slowly, a little unsteadily, he pushed himself up from his chair and stood leaning on the cane he had for that purpose.

He realised that now Aragorn was leading the Hobbits up to the green turfed thrones, that the crowd had spilled into the aisle and gathered round the steps where minstrels were beginning to play. Elrohir craned his neck to see where Legolas was. A flash of gold and a blinding smile. There. Talking to Gimli but he saw too that Eomer had made his way into the crowd and that he stood near to Legolas, and Gimli was looking up and talking to both animatedly and loudly in spite of the minstrels' song.

Anxiously Elrohir pushed past the gathered nobles and knights who clustered around and edged towards the small group. There was movement and jostling and the crowd were joining in the praise of the Halflings. Elrohir felt his limbs tremble horribly and for a moment he paused, leaning heavily on his stick. When he looked up he saw Gimli's bronze hair and beard, and Eomer, but Legolas had gone.

He lifted his head and searched through the smiling faces of the crowd, flushed with heat and wine and ale that was being poured and with the songs being sung. But nowhere could he see Legolas. A small sense of panic started in his chest and he forced himself to be still...to listen...all he heard was the song of the minstrels at first...but he did not listen to the music or the words, for it was so much less than he wanted.

Then he heard a chord, a harmony of small notes winding towards him, like the scent of the forest and the sweet mulch of autumn leaves. He closed his eyes to listen and for his feet to follow but instead there was a touch on his shoulder and he looked straight into Legolas' long green eyes. He stared at him as if he were his destiny.

'I cannot wait any longer.' He felt his fingers caught in a strong grip through the press of bodies.

More dangerous, less wise. Elrohir abandoned all the wisdom of the Noldor and followed Legolas, as his forebears had followed Fëanor in the heat of his passion and glory.

Men parted for them easily, and some smiled knowingly, for who had not seen the kiss before the Morannon? They had seen how the Sons of Thunder stood in the vanguard before the Black Gate and were not daunted, like heroes of the First Age. They had seen how the Nazgûl charged against the black horse that galloped and galloped for its rider, and died, had seen his brother ride out in defiance and glory and challenge the Nazgûl. And all had seen the tall Elf with golden hair shoot down the Nazgûl, one fell beast after another so they circled him and fell upon him like ravening wolves. So those who had stood at the Morannon parted for them easily and did not murmur.

Legolas led Elrohir slowly through the long grass, the seeds still unripe and green and he brushed his hand over them as he passed. He led Elrohir to where the old willows bent their long leaves and lay them across water that gleamed silver under the low sun. The sky was crimson, glorious, and the wind came up from the West and trailed salt on the air, like a silk scarf.

They stopped on the river bank and Legolas looked out over the water, his fingers still entwined with Elrohir's.

'I will come back here,' he said in quiet decision. 'The land here is wounded, do you not feel it?' He turned to face Elrohir and caught him in the green gaze that seemed to have absorbed all the colour of the Sea. 'Together we shall heal it.'

Elrohir followed his gaze as Legolas turned his face towards the West and let the setting sun caress him with its dying warmth. It gilded him for a moment so he was all gold and Elrohir felt his heart would burst with love.

'I have to go, to Imladris,' he said but he smiled at the devastation in the other Elf's eyes. 'For a while...But I will come back.' He lifted his hand to touch his cheek, to stroke his fingers down Legolas' face, draw his fingers down his face to his throat and hovered over his beating heart.

Legolas caught his fingers and pressed them to his lips earnestly. 'You are not some notch on my knife,' he said as if reading all of Elrohir's fears. He did not look away. 'You are everything. You are the breath of me, the heartbeat, my reason. You came back for me as I came back for you in Minas Tirith. We must be together...What am I without you?'

Legolas pressed himself against Elrohir, the bulge of his desire hard against him. 'Feel how much I want you.' He grasped Elrohir's hand and rubbed it against his erection. Elrohir sighed. And then Legolas' other hand stole to his own sex and stroked him through the fine material of his breeches, then searched beneath the waistband. When he finally touched Elrohir's skin, he felt he was burning.

'You have promised me submission,' Legolas kissed his jaw, his throat so Elrohir parted his lips, breathing heavily. 'Let me show you how much I want you, how much you are to me.'

Elrohir hesitated and pulled away slightly. He could not say that the mere smell of his own release had prevented him from even that small mercy that all folk give themselves. And he could not say that he did not trust himself.

Legolas paused and looked at Elrohir carefully.

'You have not done...this before?' he asked gently and Elrohir could hear the smile in his voice and looked up fiercely.

But Legolas' face was so tender, so compassionate that all anger fled. 'Yes. I have,' Elrohir said for he was no blushing virgin. But he was no paramour either. He rubbed his face. 'Not for many years.' Not for years and years and years...not since that dreadful time he had tried, and returned in the winter alone. He did not say this.

'Then I will enjoy reminding you,' said Legolas softly.

Legolas' bright eyes looked otherworldly and strange even to another Elf. He stroked his palms flat over Elrohir's chest, smoothing over his nipples, slowly, carefully, as if he sensed Elrohir's fear. 'Do you not feel how we burn together?' he murmured, pressing his cheek against Elrohir's, and even the touch of his skin on Elrohir's sent flames of passion through him. Legolas lifted Elrohir's long hair and kissed the rounded ear as if it were exotic and sensual.

Suddenly Elrohir grasped Legolas round his waist and pulled him closer. He buried his head in his neck, inhaled the scent of grass and the deep forest. He almost groaned for the desire that pounded in his veins. 'You are like a storm to me,' he said passionately. 'You have come and disturbed everything and...it frightens me. How you make me feel. How I want to see you undone, naked and writhing against me.'

He drew back to look deeply into Legolas' eyes and saw heat and passion, and deep somewhere, a predatory fire that matched his own wild lust. He tilted his head on one side and Elrohir wondered for a moment if it was a conscious seduction. But then he was caught in the slide of the long pale sheet of hair and he stared, forgetting all else but the sensation of lifting it in his hands and letting it stream through his fingers, pool on his palms and slide across his own skin. He lifted his hand and let his fingers catch in it gently, lusciously.

Legolas lips parted and he leaned in, pressed even closer to him and the heat from his lean body stroked Elrohir's. 'I would be naked and writhing beneath you.'

Elrohir plunged down and pressed his mouth against Legolas, hard and passionately brutal. And then there were hands on him, over him, unclipping, unbuckling, pulling fabric and shifting him until he stood mesmerized and naked, cleansed of the Shadow as the sky had been cleansed by the rain that had drenched the parched dry land of Mordor in the aftermath of the battle. He felt warmth and a wet mouth on his, felt his nipples pebble in the cold air, under the touch of an Elf he desired more than anything and he forgot himself...until he felt himself slammed against the trunk of an ancient oak tree.

He felt blood rush to his head and groin, lightheaded, full blooded - his whole being focused on lips and groin and fingers, hands, balls tightened, back pressed against the rough bark of the oak tree and he loved the feel of it and the crush of his beloved against him, hard and demanding.

Elrohir grabbed Legolas then and switched places, shoving him hard against the tree now and Legolas pulled at him, bore down on him, pushing him to the warm earth, cool grass, and Elrohir was fumbling at the ties of Legolas' well worn breeches, aware that in one place they tore easily and knowing he had done this before. He could not call what he did kissing, it was too wild, too violent but he felt Legolas return the desperate ravaging with his mouth, his hands. His throbbing sex rubbed against Legolas' thigh, a warm slick moisture on his skin.

He felt strong fingers stroke against his sac and then his rearing column of flesh and he arched his spine, a warm mouth on him and then the wetness of Legolas' tongue but he forgot all then and existed only as sensation, wetness and heat and unbearable building of ecstasy, and those long fingers stroked the crease between his buttocks and pressed into him. He tensed.

'Trust me.' The words whispered against his ear, wet with licks and tingling with bites. 'Yield to me. Submit. It will not be so hard for you.'

Elrohir hesitated. He had not imagined it to be this way around.

As if sensing his thoughts again, Legolas laughed softly. 'Is this way hard for you?' he asked and Elrohir thought him amused, baulked and pulled back. 'You promised me submission.'

'That was yesterday only.'

'No. It was not.'

He looked into wide green eyes and was aware that he heard a song of forests and ferns growing by clear forest streams over slate and granite and he heard his own song, the rhythmic pounding, the battle and fierce pride, like eagles flying keen-eyed and fierce, the wind under their wings, soaring high over mountains. He breathed.

'I will make it easier for you,' Legolas said and he licked his hand, his eyes on Elrohir's, and then sucked each of his long fingers. 'Come. It is always harder the first time.' He cupped Elrohir's face with his other hand. 'There will be pain. But you can bear it. And then there will be pleasure.'

He reached behind Elrohir then and his wet fingers stroked his entrance. 'Turn over,' he murmured, his breath hot and fast... And Elrohir turned and lay on his belly with his cheek pressed against the warm earth that was burgeoning with Spring, the buzz and whirr of small insects but his erection pressed against the hard earth and he moved his hips to rub it harder. Then he felt a delightful wetness and stroke along that crease, and fingers circled the pale skin of his entrance, pressed against it. The slick wetness of Legolas' fingers pressed and pushed in and he tensed.

Legolas leaned over Elrohir, kissing and biting his shoulder and neck, and with his other hand he pulled Elrohir up and back against him. Now the strong fingers stroked his own pulsing flesh that surged with desire and lust, the dark lust that wanted. Oh, how he wanted and strangely, he wanted to be filled, his mouth and his body to be taken and possessed by Legolas. He felt something blunt and hot nudge him then and then a terrible pain eased its way through him, a sudden stroke of fire up his spine and he cried out only to find his head pulled back and his cry muffled by Legolas' mouth, his tongue. Then something happened. He felt a thrust again and a jolt of...lust spiked him so he writhed and cried aloud again but again, Legolas was there, swallowing his cries and then again and again the pleasure-pain stabbed him with ecstasy and he pumped his erection against Legolas' hot hand.

A hot breath murmured words that he no longer comprehended and he no longer knew anything for he was in some Other Place that was all sensation, all rising desire and lust and pleasure-pain...and suddenly that jolt, that spike again shot through him and he became liquid, molten, other...the fierce wild pain melted into something completely different...

0o0o0

After, his breathing slowed and he slowly half-opened his eyes to the bare earth, the dry soil and blades of grass still clenched tight in his fingers. He was aware of long strands of blond trailing over him, mingling with his own black hair, a burning sensation somewhere low in his body. Slowly he came back to himself and lay for a moment. He felt like all the nerves and tangled knots of his body, of his spirit were smoothed out and silk in the warmth of the sun, like all the web of darkness and the taint of the Nazgûl had been purged from him, like he basked in pool of green-gold beneath the forest canopy and sunlight filtered down between the beech leaves.

He blinked and saw that Legolas lay on his side looking at him.

He saw Legolas licked his dry lips and then spoke as if this was all he had thought of during that devastating ecstasy. 'You said you had to go. When you come back,' he said, 'will you stay?'

Elrohir lifted a trembling hand to the lovely, strong face that he loved more than life, and stroked a long strand of gold, heavy silk, not like cornsilk, thicker, more lustrous. He found his own mouth dry and swallowed. 'I will stay for Arwen,' he said.

'And then?'

'Then I will stay for you.'

There was a long sigh like the wind on the Sea and Legolas bowed his head slightly, half-closed his eyes so his long lashes were dark on his cheek.

'Beloved. Rávëyon.'

00o0o0

Gimli scowled at Ellahir who was talking animatedly, laughing and twirling a knife casually between his fingers. The candle light glinted off it annoyingly and kept flashing in Gimli's eyes whenever he tried to look at it for it was finely made and he wondered who had crafted it. But it annoyed him too because he did not know where Legolas was. Or Elrodan. And Aragorn was giving him meaningful and smug looks. Ellahir leaned towards Imrahil who looked besotted, his cheeks flushed and eyes following Ellahir's every move like a love-sick maid. Gimli stabbed a knife into the rare meat put before him, muttering.

The feast was in honour of the 'Halflings' as the Men of Gondor kept calling Frodo and Sam, and all the great captains were there, and at the top table, served by Aragon himself, were Frodo and Sam themselves, looking still rather overwhelmed, and Gandalf looking impossibly smug and pleased.

Gimli growled to himself, spearing the meat and shoving it crossly into his mouth. He didn't mind Gandalf being smug, but he did mind the occasional smirk from Aragorn and his pointed looks at the empty seat next to Gimli, and then the pointed way he then looked at the empty seat next to Ellahir. The red juice ran from the meat dribbled irritatingly onto Gimli's fine velvet tunic. He chewed once and swallowed and speared a second slice of meat.

At least he knew which was which now that Elrodan was crippled and hobbling about on a stick. And at least it meant he knew where to find Legolas if he needed to. Most of the time. Which was all the more irritating that they were both absent and he couldn't find either of them. And it didn't mean that Aragorn was right either. He grabbed at his tankard of ale and gulped without tasting that either. Some of it slopped over his sleeve and he shook his head at his own disgraceful lack of manners and comportment. He was behaving like a Woodelf, slopping his drink and dropping his food down himself.

Calm, like the Mountain, he reminded himself and wished he was nearer good clean mountains, not these great jagged teeth that were tainted by Sauron's fire. Even in Ithilien he was aware of them. Their song of stone was discordant, clanging and angry like some great smith beating his fury on metal that should be tempered, soothed with khuzdul words and the sacred chants. It unsettled him. He quickly pattered out a prayer with his fingers on the underside of the table, and tried to make it calm him.

At least he could have been calm for a moment, except something, someone jobbed his elbow as he lifted his ale and made him spill it down his tunic. He swore in Khuzdul.

'Very impressive,' said a cool voice by his ear. Legolas slid into his seat between Pippin and Gimli. His face was flushed and soft and his usually immaculate hair slightly disheveled. Pippin was grinning away delightedly and Gimli glared at him too. Patience of stone, patience of stone he tried to tell himself but Legolas looked so damnably pleased with himself.

'Where have you been?' he growled at the Elf. 'I was worried about you.'

Pippin grinned even more widely and reached up and plucked a bit of grass from Legolas' hair and quickly brushed more grass and small bits of stick from his back. 'In the Shire, we'd say you look like you've been dragged through a hedge backwards,' he said mischievously.

Legolas smiled one of his blinders, as Pippin called them, and said, 'In my home we say, spun by a spider,' he said very seriously. He picked a twig out of his hair and looked at it amused.

'Ah, of course,' Pippin said with equal seriousness. 'We also say tumbled in the hay.'

Gimli glanced across at the Hobbit. In Esgaroth, which he knew well, that had a quite different meaning. Surely Pippin could not think Legolas had sneaked off from the ceremony to...tumble in the hay! He tugged his silky beard wondering how to tell Pippin that he may offend people going round saying things like that. Not that Legolas would be offended. He would be amused. Pleased even!

'Hm. And I have heard it also said rolled by a Dwarf,' Legolas said.

'I have heard that too.' Pippin said conversationally over Gimli's gasp of outrage.

'All of it could be true,' the Elf added, ignoring him and reaching for a plate with a few slices of roasted meat left.

'You have missed all the best food, Legolas, because Gimli has been dropping it in his beard and spilling all the beer down his front.'

While Gimli was spluttering over his beer, Pippin loaded meat and some deliciously spiced vegetables onto Legolas' plate and filled his goblet with wine, for Legolas would drink wine not beer.

'I see that Elrohir has joined us too,' Pippin said helpfully and Gimli looked up to see the empty chair opposite that was no longer empty. Elrodan was lounging in it, one eyebrow quirked in imitation of his illustrious father. 'He is looking much better, don't you think, Legolas?' Pippin observed casually.

Gimli was aware that his own mouth was open as Elrodan casually picked a blade of grass from his immaculate black velvet tunic and smoothed his hair. Which was not quite as immaculate as usual. In fact, his skin was flushed and glowing, and he definitely looked better than he had for quite some time, Gimli realised. He stole a look at Legolas who was staring, no, not staring, gazing, definitely gazing at the elven warrior opposite him with something akin to worship. Legolas gave a small laugh and Gimli felt a lightness like green-gold brush his awareness. But it must have been that the sun shone particularly strongly and was filtered through the luxurious silks that lined the pavilion.

'Thorin's hairy balls,' Gimli groaned in realisation, and looked up, grinding his teeth to see Aragorn watching him with a smug look and raise his goblet meaningfully. 'I will never live this down.'

'Why is Aragorn laughing at you?' Legolas asked, pulling towards himself a basket of tiny loaves of delicately baked bread, meant to be eaten as delicious morsels, and a dish of yellow butter.

Gimli did not answer, he was too busy draining his own tankard of ale.

The Elf shrugged. 'He has hardly reason,' he continued, picking up the greasy meat in his fingers and shoving it into his mouth as if he were starving. The juice dribbled down his fingers and he licked it off in a manner that Gimli could only describe as lavish and extravagant. 'That song!' Legolas' fingers hovered momentarily over the tiny loaves of bread and then swooped in and Gimli watched in alarm as Legolas swiped the whole tiny loaf over the yellow butter.

Gimli nudged him with his elbow. 'Legolas,' he hissed. The Elf looked at him with concern and Gimli was forced to hiss at him again, 'Manners! You are amongst Men, not a pit full of Woodelves.'

'What? Oh.' Legolas looked down at the Dwarf's disapproving face and then around at the company. He reached down to his boot and whipped out a lethally sharp knife and thrust it into a creamy white cheese. 'Do you know I forgot where I was!' he exclaimed, eating the cheese straight off the blade and Gimli groaned. Why bother?

Pippin sniggered and Legolas wiped his hands on his tunic and then wiped his mouth on his sleeve and shot a dazzling smile around at anyone who was looking. Gimli mentally braced himself because Pippin had sniggered and that would have encouraged Legolas.

Legolas laughed loudly and called across to Aragorn, 'Praise them with great praise? Did you write that that all by yourself?' Then he grinned widely and when Aragorn looked annoyed, he nudged Pippin who laughed with him. 'We thought so. Gimli owes me a very nice pocket knife he has.' Legolas brandished his own knife that glinted in the candlelight and looked like it could cut a hair in two. Pippin ducked nervously.

Gimli was delighted to see Aragorn looked slightly embarrassed; Imrahil was speaking to him and leaving the great table, but Aragorn looked distracted and was not listening to Imrahil. Gimli's good humour was suddenly restored. Legolas was safe after all, and if he had tumbled with Elrodan, well, they were both grown-ups and could look after themselves. Perhaps it had been a long time coming after all. He was not unfamiliar with some of the ways of Men. And Elves it seemed.

He carefully removed a crumb from his silky beard and handed Legolas a napkin, which he looked at in askance. 'Wipe your mouth,' Gimli said gently and smiled. And when Legolas looked at him, he felt again that sudden flood of green-gold sunlight and someone must had crushed some herbs for a sweetness filled the air.

'It will be the influence of Elves upon your song-writing skills, Aragorn,' Gimli decided he would not be bested and put on a Pippin-ish seriousness. 'For are there not some of the greatest songs sung in the Halls of Rivendell?' he asked. Legolas was very still and cocked his head to shoot a knowing glance down at Gimli. Gimli laughed, showing his white teeth and his bright eyes gleamed.

'Indeed they do,' Legolas replied with feigned innocence. 'Most of them are long and very sad. But not all.' He cocked his head to one side and shot a teasing look towards Elrohir, and then back at Aragorn who was looking nervously at his brothers. But Ellahir was not listening, for he looked like he had just discovered something that he had not realised about himself and was staring after Imrahil who was passing behind Gimli and going out into the sunlight. And Elrohir only had eyes for Legolas and nothing he did could be wrong. But Aragorn was fair game, thought Gimli, and took a deep breath, making sure everyone could hear though he did not speak loudly; it was one of the Gifts of Mahal.

Legolas was humming something under his breath.

Then Gimli grinned, a broad Dwarvish grin at Legolas. 'Tra-la-la-lally down here in the valley, do you mean?' he bellowed with loud dwarvish laugh. 'I know it well!'

0o0o0

At last the glad day ended; and when the Sun was gone and the round Moon rode slowly above the mists of the Anduin and flickered through the fluttering leaves, the rest of the Fellowship sat under the whispering trees amid the fragrance of fair Ithilien; and they talked deep into the night. There Gimli learned much of all that had happened after their Fellowship was broken on that evil day at Parth Galen by Rauros Falls; and still there was always more to ask and more to tell.

They learned some, but Gimli knew not all, of what had befallen Frodo and Sam. But they were sparing with their questions, for it was too soon. And he remembered Legolas' words when Gandalf had fallen and he could not speak of what the Elves sang; for me the grief is too near. So it was for Frodo, and for Sam. And often they looked at each other with understanding and the same deep love he felt not only for Legolas, but all of his friends here in the reunited Company.

Gimli sat beneath the great oak trees, looking at each of the Fellowship with immense affection. Pippin was laughing and Gimli remembered how he had searched for the Hobbit amongst the charnel of the battlefield, fingers tapping against each other in the tiny movements of the Aglâbnâla. It was late, he thought, and the Hobbits looked tired. Pippin was flushed and loud, making dreadful jokes at Gandalf's expense and Gimli was suddenly so glad Legolas had made him go and find the Hobbit for had he not, Pippin would have perished in that distant and forsaken land.

Gandalf must have been having similar thoughts for he rose at last and said, 'The hands of the King are the hands of healer, dear friends,' he said briskly, shooting a look at Pippin and then more softly at Sam, who was struggling to stay awake. 'But you went to the very brink of death 'ere he called you back, putting forth all his power, and sent you into the sweet forgetfulness of sleep. And though you have indeed slept long and blessedly, still it is time now to sleep again.*'

'And not only Frodo and Sam here,' Gimli nodded towards Pippin, who had drunk far too much and was giggling uncontrollably. 'but you too, Pippin. I love you if only because of the pains you have cost me, which I shall never forget. Nor shall I forget finding you on the hill of the last battle.' He did not say how he had felt on half-carrying Legolas, with barely breath left in his body, how they had slowly, tortuously made their way along the bottom of the slag heaps to find a healer, how they had stumbled across Elladan and Legolas was frightened. He did not say how Legolas had gazed so fearfully at him and grasped his hand, made him swear not to leave Pippin in that forsaken land...and he had meant himself also. Gimli took a breath and pushed those memories away. Instead he looked at Pippin and smiled. 'But for Gimli the Dwarf you would have been lost then.' And he knew Legolas understood for he turned and the moonlight shone in his strange green eyes for a moment. 'But at least I know the look of a Hobbit's foot, though it be all that can be seen under a heap of bodies.'*

Pippin grinned at him and threw his arm about Gimli, mumbling something incoherent. It sounded like 'You're my best friend, Gumli. No! Glumly...Gimlug...I love you. I really love you. Better than Mer.. well, no. Not better than Mer...What's your dad's name again? Groin?'

Merry smiled apologetically and started to say something but Gimli stopped him.

"Mahal willed it,' he said simply. 'When I heaved that great carcass off you, you looked for all the world dead,' he said gruffly and Pippin wobbled unsteadily on his feet, staring glassy-eyed at him. Gimli remembered though, how he felt the heat of the living and the cold of the dead - not The Dead as they had been at Pelargir. He let himself feel where there was warmth, energy, life amongst this slaughter and even now, the moment was sharp in his memory. 'A Dwarf always knows. Anyone else would have given you up. But there was the spark of life in you yet.'

'Now, it is only a day or two since you invalids were first up and abroad again,' he said gruffly, though he knew it was longer, it didn't matter. 'To bed now you go. And so shall I!'

Legolas stood then, brushing off the blades of grass and small flowers that seemed to cling to him as if they did not want him to go. He laughed lightly, and his eyes shone like Gimli had not seen before. 'And I shall walk in the woods...' He paused and smiled. 'And if my Elven-lord allows, some of our folk shall remove hither, and when we come it shall be blessed for a while...' He turned and looked upon the Fellowship, and Gimli was not alone in feeling it was a benediction. And no one questioned that the land would be blessed. 'For a while: for a month, a life, a hundred years of Men...' He lifted his face to the risen Moon and the white light stroked his hair so it gleamed. 'But the Anduin is near, and Anduin leads down to the Sea. To the Sea!' He turned in a circle in the moonlight, hands outstretched and head tilted back.

A shadow detached itself from the trees and slipped, limping, quietly away towards the river and Legolas' head turned and followed its path.

He smiled then, so sweetly, so utterly delighted that Gimli could not be sad at the Song that lifted from him then for he laughed and turned and gave Pippin an enormous and extravagant bow. Then he turned and went down the long slopes towards the river, following the shadow that slipped from tree to tree.

'Leg'les.. you're my best mate!' slurred Pippin, falling into Merry. 'Tell Elrodan...tell him.. I was never scare of him...' He giggled and tripped over and went down in a tumble of soft limbs.

Gimli looked upon Pippin's laughing, silly face, and turned towards Merry. He saw then that Merry had the same look of astounded delight that Gimli knew was upon his own. He felt a dazzle of white power briefly brush against his own thoughts and glanced up to see Gandalf's piercing blue eyes upon him. Gandalf nodded as if he too shared the same thoughts and drew upon his pipe. A smoke ring floated above him. The white smoke turned blue, then green then gold as it turned from an arrow, axe and sword, and then trembling to hold its shape it turned into a white ship with full sails...and the Wizard turned his eyes towards Gimli and smiled.

The End

Already posting however, the PREQUEL to this, and if you have not read Songs of Rohan, that is the section immediatel before this sotry. 

So in order:  
1) More Dangerous  
2) Songs of Rohan (Deeper than Breathing)  
3) Sons of Thunder

*Reference to Spiced Wine's fabulous spin off this, A Blood-Dark Northern Star.

*This is the vision Saruman showed Legolas of Mirkwood, in the prequel to this. On ffnet, Deeper than Breathing but grown up better versions on Faerie and AO3 as Songs of Rohan.

*Belâsen: My strength. A phrase from Avari, derived from primitive Quendi.

You'll have noticed too, smatterings of phrases from the book itself. I did not *as it was becoming intrusive.


	47. Sequel: Where the Shadows Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,  
> Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,  
> Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,  
> One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne  
> In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.
> 
> The One Ring has been destroyed and Sauron banished to the Dark with his own Master, Morgoth. But not all the Rings were destroyed with it; the Three made by Celebrimbor to counter the One are free now and there are artefacts still in the ruined cities of both Mordor and Eregion. And the fate of those lesser Rings is not known...yet. Against this, Legolas and Elrohir struggle in their new found love and not all is smooth. By any means.
> 
> Sons II now posted.

‘Here is the road from Osgiliath,’ Aragorn stabbed his finger down onto the map. ‘And here,’ he ran his finger along the thick black line that marked the road, ‘is Minas Morgul. Can you not see, it is the most strategic point on the river, our mainstay….’

Legolas stopped listening again and drifted around the back of the gathered lords as if he were going to peer over Aragorn’s shoulder at the map, to get a better view. 

It took him directly behind Elrohir’s chair, and when he leaned forwards slightly as if to look at the map, he let his breath drift over the back of Elrohir’s head, it lifted one or two strands of his long black-silk hair and Elrohir turned his head ever so slightly towards Legolas, standing close, too close, behind him. Elrohir’s lips turned upwards slightly and then he turned back to face all the generals and lords.

‘I wager we will be leaving at dawn,’ Legolas whispered so quietly against Elrohir’s ear, deliberately letting his breath caress it and was pleased at the shiver it brought. ‘Will you miss me?’

Elrohir shifted uncomfortably and Legolas smiled and let his hand surreptitiously trace the straight spine of his beloved who was trying so hard to concentrate.

 

Find the rest under the new story: Where the Shadows Lie


End file.
